

## Inquest

### Book 1 of The Destroyer Trilogy

Also by DelSheree Gladden

The Handbook Series

The Crazy Girl's Handbook

The Oblivious Girl's Handbook

Eliza Carlisle Mystery Series

Trouble Magnet

The Catalyst

The Arcane Wielder Series

Life & Being

The Ghost Host Series

The Ghost Host: Episode 1

The Ghost Host: Episode 2

Escaping Fate Series

Escaping Fate

Soul Stone

Oracle Lost

(Coming Soon)

Twin Souls Saga

Twin Souls

Shaxoa's Gift

Qaletaqa

The Destroyer Trilogy

Inquest

Secret of Betrayal

Darkening Chaos

Someone Wicked This Way Comes Series

Wicked Hunger

Wicked Power

Wicked Glory

Wicked Revenge

The Aerling Series

Invisible

Intangible

Invincible

The Date Shark Series

Date Shark

Shark Out Of Water

The Only Shark In The Sea

Shark In Troubled Waters

## Inquest

### Book 1 of The Destroyer Series

by

### DelSheree Gladden

### Smashwords Edition

### Inquest

Book One of The Destroyer Trilogy

Written by DelSheree Gladden

Copyright © 2012 DelSheree Gladden

Cover Design Blank Page Design Shop

Published by DelSheree Gladden

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

For my husband, Ryan,

my toughest critic and biggest fan.

He always makes my books better.

## Acknowledgements

Thanks so much to my fellow writers on The Next Big Writer who helped me get this book into shape for publishing, and for their support during the process. Thank you Ann Everett, Linda Ulleseit, Apryl Baker, Angela Fristoe, Nancy DeMarco, Maggie Banks, Tess Black, Terri Wood, Madison Ready, Diane Shelton, C.E. Jones, Arianna Sofer, and Ingrid Seymour.

Thank you to my family and friends who have read, and re-read this book in order to give me their invaluable insights. I owe an especially big thanks to my husband, Ryan, for spending nearly as much time as I did with this series, for reading all three books several times and helping me fill in holes, spot errors, and keep my characters likable and entertaining.

### Contents

________________________________________

1. Imagined Perfection

2. Death Sentence

3. Gift

4. Unaware

5. Embrace

6. Risk

7. Hero

8. Lurking

9. Jealousy

10. Privilege

11. Betsy

12. Perfectly Logical Reasons

13. Nothing

14. Celia

15. Sporting Chance

16. Demands

17. Disturbance

18. Irrational

19. Holding Back

20. Betrayal

21. Frigid

22. Tricks

23. Helpless

24. Shallow Dreams

25. Boiling Mercury

26. Found

27. Noise

28. Remedy

29. Cipher

30. Purpose

31. Planning

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Chapter 1

Imagined Perfection

I never thought someone I loved would try to kill me. But when you know you're going to do something worse, does that make it okay? Should you hope for that person to succeed?

The numbers on my phone glare back at me, reminding me that I only have six hours left to live. Guardian law is absolute. Another minute passes and the urge to hide grows. It's a familiar feeling. One I've quietly obeyed most of my life. Hide my talents, my power, my destiny. Lie when I'm questioned. Do whatever it takes to keep my secret safe. I've gotten pretty good at it, but it won't matter in six hours. I will be revealed for who and what I am, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

I just wish my best friend, Jen, would stop talking about it so I can put it out of my mind. Not that she knows what is going to happen tonight, of course, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to snatch the hot pink daisy right out of her bouncy blond hair and stuff it in her mouth. Keeping myself from breaking down into a trembling puddle of fear is hard enough without her non-stop jabbering.

"I can't believe in a few hours you'll have a new name, Libby."

Neither can I, but I say, "What's the big deal, Jen? It's just my Inquest. Everyone goes through theirs. It's the law. Everyone gets a new name they never even use. Everyone goes on with their lives like nothing happened. It's not a big deal."

"What about your talents being unlocked, and the diktats? Those are definitely a big deal."

My fingers subconsciously rub the smooth skin of my left wrist. It won't stay smooth for much longer. After my Inquest, the diktats will mar me for the rest of my life, however short that might be.

Jen notices me poking at my skin and raises a smug eyebrow. I turn away from her before she thinks too hard about what wrist I was fiddling with and shove a book back into my locker. When I slam the door shut, irritated that she's seeing through my false confidence, her expression is even haughtier. Her green eyes pierce me in a way that makes me look away. Despite the fact that I wish she'd just leave me alone right now, Jen's ability to see through my bravado is why she's my best friend. I need someone who can keep me grounded.

"Well, I can't wait for my Inquest," Jen says. "I think getting a new name and finding out what my talents are and what job they'll assign me to is going to be awesome."

"I already know what my talents are. Painting, sketching, give me a pencil or a brush and I'll do whatever you want with it. Those are my only talents." At least as far as anyone else knows those are my only talents. And I am praying my guts out that it will stay that way. The Inquisitor is old, really old. Maybe he won't see anything in me tonight. That's my only hope now, and it's a pretty slim one. "Why do I need some old man to tell me I'm going to be an artist? My school schedule isn't even going to change. Nothing is going to change. The whole thing is just a big waste of time."

"Those aren't the talents I'm talking about, and you know it."

Now it's my turn to feel superior. My dark eyebrows lift in a smirk. "Oh really? Why do you think I prefer organic oil paints, or why I use natural horsehair brushes over synthetic? Why don't I ever wear fabrics that aren't made of natural fibers?"

Jen's berry colored lips pop open in excitement. "You think Naturalism is going to be one of your talents? That's great, Libby. You'll be in the Creator class, then. If you have a Common name you'll be screwed, stuck in some boring job like a gardener or something. A Warrior name would be a little better, but not much. An Iconic name, though, you'd be scooped up as a state-funded artist for sure. That would be so awesome!" She pauses, her enthusiasm waning. "Knowing so much already kind of ruins the surprise, though, doesn't it?"

"My thoughts exactly. I already know what the Inquisitor is going to tell me. Why go?"

"Why? Because the Guardians will hunt you down and drag you back to the Inquisitor if you try to run away from your Inquest, that's why. Besides, you don't know everything," Jen reminds me. "You still have to find out your name. There's no way you can know that already."

I roll my eyes and lean against my locker. Two bulky guys from the football team rumble down the hall, pausing in their heckling of each other to look over at us. After seeing that my boyfriend, Lance, isn't around, they turn away without acknowledging me. I frown at them before reluctantly turning my attention back to Jen. I really wish she would just drop the subject all together and let me focus on trying not to throw up. "Who cares what my name is going to be? Like I said before, nobody ever actually uses their true name. I don't see the point in even getting one."

"You of all people should want a new name."

"It will probably be awful, anyway."

Flopping against the locker next to me, Jen lets out an exasperated breath. "Your parents already covered that one. I mean, seriously, who would ever choose Libitina? You're named after a roman death goddess, for crying out loud! Like any kid wants that following them through school. Creepy. It sounds like some kind of Goth ballerina freak. Your parents must have been high, or something."

"It's an old family name, supposedly." I'm more inclined to believe that my mom knew she'd hate me from the moment she met me.

"What, did your family pop out of a Bram Stoker novel or something? Anyway, there's no way you'd get stuck with another name like that. Fate can't be that cruel."

"Clearly you don't know me very well, then," I say. If something bad could happen, it would happen to me. A dozen broken bones, various serious injuries, embarrassing stories, that's me. I am a magnet for unfortunate situations. Granted, most of those mishaps were caused by either my own stupidity or some brilliant idea I had, but still.

"Well, it's too bad the best name the Inquisitor could give you is also the worst one. Despite how horrible it would be to actually get it, I've always liked the name Cassia. It sounds so ancient and regal."

I turn so I'm facing her directly. "There is nothing regal about that name," I snap. "I can't believe you're even mentioning it. Please, Jen. I have some trig to finish during lunch. Let's go already."

"Aren't you even a little bit nervous about tonight?" Jen asks.

I have to lie again. "No."

I hate lying to Jen, but I can't let her see how scared I am or she'll know I'm hiding something. Jen can be relentless when there's a secret nearby. There is a reason her articles on the school blog are the most read, hottest thing on the page. They might be the only thing anyone actually reads.

"Excited?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"Scared?"

Before I can shake my head again I feel someone's arms wrap around my waist. "Scared about what?" Lance asks.

"Her Inquest."

Lance leans his head down and kisses my neck, making me sigh. His sandy blond hair tickles my skin as he moves to kiss my forehead. "There's nothing about an Inquest to be scared of," he says. "Unless you have a problem with pain."

"Thanks," I say, but my fingers wind around his where I can feel the raised, scarred flesh of the diktats that run along the inside of his wrist. His right wrist, exactly where they're supposed to be. Feeling them makes me shiver. I have a huge problem with pain. I can handle it with the best of them, given my vast experience with it, but for that same reason even the idea of being hurt makes me start smelling hospital antiseptic. That scent sends me into a panic quicker than anything else.

The chime of Jen's phone makes her whip it out of her pocket at lightning speed. Her fingers flash across the screen as she brings up the text message she just received. An instant later she groans and stuffs the phone back into her pocket.

"Speaking of pain, I've gotta go."

I can't help the bubble of pleasure that I won't have to listen to her badgering me about my Inquest. Still, her mention of pain forces guilt into my mind and presses my best friend button. "Go where? We've still got three more classes."

"Remember? The dentist?" I shake my head at her. She shrugs and continues. "Oh, I thought I told you my mom was checking me out for a dentist appointment. One of my fillings cracked and I haven't been able to drink a soda in days."

Rolling my eyes dramatically, I say, "Oh, dear, you poor thing. You'd better hurry. I wouldn't want you to die from lack of carbonation."

With a flip of her long, blond hair, she sticks her nose in the air. "You'll feel really terrible if I keel over dead and miss your Inquest."

"Actually, that might be the only thing that would get me out of my Inquest." I almost feel like it would be worth it. Guilt for my dark thoughts crashes against my carefully controlled emotions, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to hold onto my composure. For once, Jen doesn't notice my internal struggle.

"Whatever," she says, "I'll be at your house at five to help you get ready, if you're still sure it's okay Lance and I come."

"I'm sure, Jen. I got permission from Inquisitor Moore months ago. All the paperwork saying you and Lance are allowed to attend are safely stowed in his safe. The Guardians aren't going to arrest you for trying to crash my Inquest. I promise."

Jen grimaces. I have to stop myself from doing the same. Just thinking about the Guardians putting their hands on me again makes me shudder. With all the times I've snuck out or tried to escape my mom, I've been dragged back way too many times by those cretins.

"You're sure?" Jen asks again.

"I'm positive."

"Okay," she says. "I'll be by tonight, then. Maybe we can actually do something with that blah hair of yours."

"Good luck with that," I say. My dark chestnut hair is staying exactly as it is.

Jen smiles optimistically—foolish girl—and hurries away from us. I can't focus on her for very long, though, not with Lance pulling me against his chest more tightly now that she's gone. He drops a kiss on my forehead, and I lift my chin hoping he will move down to my lips. Kissing Lance is about the only thing that will take my mind off tonight. To my satisfaction, Lance does bring his mouth to meet mine, but the brief touch does nothing to soothe me.

"What's wrong with your hair?" Lance asks.

Hair, I can talk about hair. Maybe.

"It's not curled and hairsprayed and poofed a mile off my head like hers."

Lance twists a lock of my long hair around his finger and smiles. "Don't get me wrong, I love your hair how it is, but would curls really be such a bad thing? It's been a long time."

"Don't," I warn him, my tone making it perfectly clear that we are done talking about hair. Lance sighs and lets the strand fall. There's still a gentle pressure in his eyes, like there always is when this topic comes up, but this is not an argument I'm willing to have. Seeing that, Lance switches topics.

He reaches into his jeans pocket for something hidden there, and says, "By the way, happy sixteenth birthday, Libby."

"I suppose it was too much to hope for that you'd forget," I say.

Lance shakes his head with the mischievous smile I adore. I wish I could skip this day entirely, but my eyes wander down to his hand as he slides it from his pocket. The hint of something sparkly sets my insides fluttering wildly. I can barely suppress the excited giggle rising in my chest. He always knows just how to make me smile. He has since we were little.

The silver chain pulls free and dangles in front of me. I watch the pendant dance. Its two blades of wheat, single butterfly, and a sinuous snake that wraps around the other two glitter in the muted light. The sign for Naturalism. Like Jen, he believes my assertion that it is my talent, my only talent. A faint flash of guilt runs through me before I can smother it and put on an enthusiastic smile that isn't totally false. Lance grins at my reaction and fastens the necklace around my neck. His hands stay there and pull me closer for a kiss. The heat of his lips on mine burns away my fear and anxiety, replacing it with warmth and comfort.

I want more. I want to stay locked in this sphere of imagined perfection for the rest of my life. The need to breathe pulls Lance back too soon. I slump against my locker in disappointment despite how wonderful his kisses make me feel. Lingering with his head touched lightly against mine, his hands stay behind my neck as well. My eyes stray to the blade strapped to his left wrist. The only weapons allowed on campus, the sign that he is a member of the Guardian class always makes me shiver.

Not wanting to dwell on what that knife is meant to do, I turn my head and find myself staring at the perfectly even and symmetrical row of scarred flesh on his right wrist. The diktats look like scars, but scars would never be so perfect. And no one would survive having their wrist sliced vertically so many times. Without meaning to, my fingers stray to the diktats and gently brush across the seven marks. Two for his talents, Speed and Strength. Two for being given a Warrior name. And three for belonging to the Guardian class.

"I was just teasing about the pain. You know that, right?" Lance asks softly, his bright blue eyes filled with concern. He is intimately aware of my feelings on the subject. Friends since childhood, Lance has seen almost every one of my dozen broken bones firsthand. He was even involved in a few of the unfortunate exploits.

The tender concern in his voice is endearing, but not in the least bit reassuring. Regardless, I still nod and try to smile. Lance isn't convinced.

"Really, Libby, it's not that bad. It stings more than anything. You'll be fine." He holds his right wrist next to mine and rubs his thumb across my skin. "Everything will be okay. You'll forget the pain as soon as it's over, and in a few hours we'll match."

That's what he thinks. I tuck my left arm behind my back, not wanting to think about it.

"What did your mom give you for your birthday, anyway?" Lance asks, changing the subject.

Taking my new keys out of my pocket, I dangle them with a scowl. "Not the one I wanted, of course."

He laughs. "Did you really expect your mom to buy you a twenty-year-old Ford Bronco? She would never allow you to be seen driving something like that. Which one did she get you, the Audi or the Lexus?"

"The Audi." The venom in my voice doesn't keep Lance from grinning. He'd been hoping for the Audi. It is much faster than the Lexus. And Lance loves to go fast.

"Maybe we can take it out after your Inquest," he suggests. The eager shine in his eyes is very nearly catching. The last word of his sentence sours any hope of my reciprocating his enthusiasm.

I offer him the best smile I can manage, which isn't much, and say, "Yeah, maybe. Let's go to lunch. I've got some homework to finish."

Lance's arm wraps around my waist and guides me down the hall. I try to focus on the feel of his touch, but all I can think of is how stupid it is that I'm worrying about my homework. My chances of not being murdered after my Inquest are pretty slim, which means this assignment is the last one I will ever turn in. At least there's one upside to dying.

Chapter 2

Death Sentence

My mother glares at me as soon as I step out of my car. The fact that Jen and Lance are right behind me doesn't faze her at all. Her slim hips twitch back and forth angrily, and she stamps over to me. She is the model of upper-echelon sophistication in her two piece silk suit and gauzy white blouse peeking out from under the neckline of her jacket. Her eyes flick over my own clothing, a pair of dark denim skinny jeans and a turquoise t-shirt I hand painted in my clothing design class last week. I thought the sparkly silver paint I used looked great in its swirling, abstract pattern.

"That was the best you could come up with, Libby?" my mom sneers. "You would think you lived downtown instead of in a gated community by the way you're dressed. If your father were here..."

"He's not," I snap.

"This is supposed to be an important occasion. Your place in this society, the rest of your life, is about to be determined! You could have at least attempted to treat it with some respect. You wouldn't have dressed like an urchin if your father were the one doing your Inquest the way it should have been." She never talks about my dad except to throw his death in my face. She has never made a secret about who she blames for his not being here anymore. Her fingers snatch up a strand of my dark hair. "Would it have killed you to do something with your hair besides let it hang like limp spaghetti?"

I yank my hair out of her grip, and say, "Who knows? Maybe it would. You could always hope, right?"

Furious, she turns her back on me—big surprise—and marches up the staircase to the front door of Inquisitor Moore's expansive mansion. She swings the door open and marches inside. Lance thinks he's helping when he reaches up and touches my shoulder softly. His kiss on my head follows, sweet and wonderful, but I want to shake him off. He's trying to calm me down, but I don't need calm. Anger is the only thing keeping the terror at bay for the moment.

When I don't respond to him, Lance sighs and pulls me toward the doors of Inquisitor Moore's home. "Just forget her," Lance says. He pauses before opening the door and kisses my forehead gently. He pulls me up the staircase to follow after my mom. I can't help but drag against him. He feels it and looks back at me with an encouraging smile. "I think you look great, by the way."

"Thanks," I mutter as he pulls the door open and pushes me inside.

Standing in the foyer of the Inquisitor's office is too much for me. Self-control leaves me as soon as I step into the richly appointed house. The centuries-old tapestry hanging on the wall, antique chaise, and solid gold candelabra should be welcoming. Instead, the layers of texture and finery only press in on me. I feel claustrophobic right away. I know my nails are digging into Jen's hand, but I can't force myself to ease my grip on her. Not even to elbow the "I knew you were scared" look off her face. In all reality, she looks scared, too. Nowhere near as terrified as I feel, but definitely worried. Lance standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders can't calm me down either. He shifts and the edge of his Guardian blade brushes across my shoulder. Hot, frightened tears spring to my eyes, but I summon up enough control to keep them from falling.

Please don't let it be his blade that ends my life, I beg.

"It will just be a few more minutes, Mrs. Sparks," the Inquisitor's page says to my mother. "Inquisitor Moore and the resident Guardian are just confirming all the paperwork for your guests. They shouldn't be much longer."

My mother nods the barest acknowledgement and goes back to ignoring everyone in the room. Jen squirms at the mention of guests. I want to reassure her again, but I can't.

"I think I'm going to throw up," I whisper to Jen.

She looks over at me with alarm. "Well, if you do, just make sure to aim it away from me. I will not be happy if I end up with barf all over my new Manolo Blahnik shoes. These babies are precious."

"Just for that," I say with a scowl, "I'll make sure it gets on your dress, too."

Horror springs onto her face for a second before she loses her calm and starts snickering. "You'll be fine. Don't worry."

"It's no big deal," Lance says as he hugs me. "We'll be out of here in half an hour, tearing up the road in the Audi."

Neither of them have any idea just how wrong they are. I'm not about to point it out, though. I'm happy to let them, and me, bask in the fantasy while we can.

Our basking only lasts about thirty seconds.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Inquisitor is ready for you. Please follow me," the page says.

Everyone—which is basically my mom, Jen, and Lance—moves to follow him but me. It's a small group, even with my guests. I have cousins, aunts, and uncles that could have come, but my mom has no desire to parade the daughter she despises in front of anyone. Even with so few, the room feels crowded. A sudden desire to bolt for the door and never look back grabs hold of me. I might have given in if not for Jen and Lance holding onto me, waiting for me. If I run, I will never see them again. They are the two most important people in my life, the only ones who really care about me. And for some reason I can't stomach the thought of dying alone.

Alone is what I will be if I run. I will be hunted down and murdered by strangers. If I die tonight, at least I'll have them with me. Maybe I'll even get to see my dad again. My heart clenches inside my chest. What will he say to me when he sees me again? Will he spurn me because of what happened, or will he open his arms to me like he used to? The image of his warm, compassionate smile fills my mind and comforts me. He'll understand. I know he'll be happy to see me again. That thought gives me the strength to take a step forward.

It's not that I want to die, I would rather avoid that happening at all costs, but knowing that if my life ends tonight I will be back in my dad's arms gives me a certain measure of peace. Before I know it I am walking into the ritual chamber, standing across from the Inquisitor. His wizened form trembles in front of me, a low-level shiver that constantly runs through his body. His eyes, though, are soft and gentle. Honest welcome plays on his features as he holds his hands out to me. I take them carefully and return the feeble squeeze he gives me.

"How nice to see you again, Libby," Inquisitor Moore warbles.

"It's nice to see you again too, sir," I reply. The calmness in my voice is surprising. I still feel like I might empty my stomach at any second, but thinking of my dad has given me back just enough control to fake being calm.

Inquisitor Moore places one of his hands on top of both of mine. His eyes fill with glassy tears as he stares at me. "If your father were still alive, he would be the one standing here now. I'm sorry it couldn't be that way."

He knows nothing of what happened to my dad, but I feel the sting of accusation regardless. My dad was supposed to be the next Inquisitor. I'm not sure whether it would have been better or worse having him be the one to tell everyone what I truly am, to pronounce my fate. It would hurt to hear the words coming from his lips, but that would have meant I'd have had five more years with him. It would have been worth it.

"I'm sorry he isn't here, too," I whisper.

"I'll do my best in his place. Now why don't we get started?"

I can only nod when a lump of fear lodges itself in my throat.

"Everyone please take your seats," Inquisitor Moore asks. The resident Guardian slides into place at the back of the room, watching everyone. Inquisitor Moore waits for the rustle of chairs and clothing to settle before continuing. "I would like to thank everyone for coming tonight to support Libby. She grew up playing in this house while I trained her father, but this is the first time she has ever entered this room The ritual chamber is sacred. In this room, Libby's true identity will be revealed."

My heart stops. Does he know? How could he possibly? I very nearly bolt, but his next few words calm me back down.

"We all know Libby for the good, kind young woman she is, but by identity I mean who she will become. Will she be an artist as she would choose if only she could? The time for wondering has come to an end. In a few moments I will reveal Libby's true name and class and unlock her talents. These elements of her future identity will determine the path her life will take from here on out."

I really, really hope not. Every cell in my body is begging for a miracle.

"Libby, would you please join me?"

I wait just a moment longer, but no one rushes in to save me. So I stand and walk over to the two chairs placed in the center of the room. He gestures for me to sit. Surrendering, I take my place.

Inquisitor Moore takes his seat as well, and we sit facing each other while the others watch intently from the edges of the small room. I feel one gaze more intently than any other. There is a bored look on the resident Guardian's face, but I know it will disappear in a flash when the time comes. Turning away, my gaze is pulled to Jen and Lance sitting to my left. Their encouraging smiles are impossible to return. It's almost physically painful to turn back to the Inquisitor when he takes both of my hands in his.

"Don't worry," he says, "everything will be just fine."

For a moment I almost believe him.

Then he closes his eyes and the Inquest begins.

Silence falls on the room so pressing that I can feel it on my skin. Goosebumps scatter across my flesh even though the room is pleasantly warm. I close my eyes and feel the Inquisitor's power start to flow through me. The rush of soul-scouring intrusion that flows through my hands makes me tremble, slightly at first, but as the sensation travels up my arms my convulsions grow more noticeable. The pressure to control it has me grinding my teeth. I try to hold it off, but the second the Inquisitor's power touches my mind it saps my strength and leaves me shivering like a puppy in the rain. My arms feel limp, but the Inquisitor's own hands seem to have gained strength that a man of his age should not possess. Pain lances up my arms as he grips my hands.

When he finally speaks it startles me so much that I jump.

"Libitina Sparks, the Inquest to discover your true identity and purpose has begun," his suddenly firm voice says.

A pitiful whimper slips out from between my lips before I can stop myself. The elderly man falls silent for several long seconds. I can feel the power of his Perception talent searching every inch of me, devouring the secrets hidden there. The blood pounding in my ears makes it nearly impossible to hear anything but my own staccato pulse. It sounds like the Inquisitor is whispering when he finally speaks.

"Libitina, you come from a long line of very talented individuals. It is now time to uncover your own talents so you may use them to benefit those with whom you come in contact."

Warmth suddenly settles around my left wrist instead of my right. Not a pleasant warmth either. An itching, blistering heat that makes my hand begin to twitch involuntarily. The Inquisitor pauses briefly, and I open my eyes to see his brow furrow in...concentration? Confusion? When he continues I doubt I am the only one who can hear the uncertainty underlying his words.

"Libby, your talents are Naturalism, to speak to and protect the natural elements of this world, Spiritualism, to touch the souls of all living and non-living beings so you may comfort and guide them, Vision, to see what others are blind to, Perception, to know the hearts, emotions, and minds of others so you may not be deceived, Concealment, to hide what needs to be hidden and to find and reveal the truth of all things," he says, his voice becoming weaker with each talent.

My wrist burns more fiercely with each one named. I can feel the diktats forming like scar tissue, rising out of the once smooth skin of my left wrist. I'm not the only one that can see them. Inquisitor Moore's eyes move reluctantly from my right wrist, were the diktats should have appeared, over to my left. His face falls as what his Perception talent must be telling him is confirmed in flaring red reality. Tears drip down his wrinkled cheeks.

I can see my mom sitting behind Inquisitor Moore, blocked from seeing my wrist. She's glowing with ravenous elation. When my dad died she lost so much more than a husband who treasured her. She lost the power and prestige of being married to the man set up to be the next ruling Inquisitor. Lording over a daughter who she must believe could very likely take his place makes her look positively euphoric. The problem with her excitement is that the Inquisitor isn't done yet. Five of the seven talents being gifted to one person is rare enough, but all seven is a death sentence. It is a mark everyone in the world knows, and fears.

Inquisitor Moore, clearing his voice, barely even makes a dent in my mom's aura until he gets halfway through his sentence.

"You also have a talent of..." His voice falters again. My dad was his apprentice, his son in every sense of the word, save for actual blood. I grew up playing in this house while he and my dad worked. I love him, and he me. He knows the weight of what he is about to say. Tears fall, but he can no more lie in the middle of an Inquest than I can make myself disappear. "Libby," he whispers, "you also have the talents of Speed and Strength."

Pain flares across my skin as the next two diktats emerge.

Everyone in the room gasps in horror as the reality of me having all seven talents hits them. My mom nearly topples from her chair as her visions of the future are shattered. They hear the Inquisitor's words, but the meaning has yet to sink in through the shock. Inquisitor Moore spits the rest of my death sentence out in a sudden rush.

"Your true name is from the Iconic line. You are Cassia, the one and only member of the Destroyer class."

Everything happens at once. The Inquisitor slumps in his chair as Lance leaps from his. My heart swells for a brief second as I think he is reaching out for me. That illusion shatters when I see the blade in his hand. The only thing that saves me from being left to drown in my own blood is the sudden blinding agony that grips the entire left side of my body. The remaining eight diktats that accompany my name and class sear their way out of my flesh as if I have just been branded like a witless cow. The crippling explosion throws me to the floor just as Lance's knife slices through the air that my neck just occupied, clipping my skin briefly before meeting empty air again. Somewhere through the haze of gut wrenching pain, betrayal lodges itself into my heart.

Tears pour down my cheeks and soak into the expensive carpet beneath me. Not even I know whether they come more from the pain or the dying hope that Lance would protect me. I want to be strong in my final moments of life, but I can't face it. I can't die with the image of the guy I love hovering over me, intent on seeing me dead. A thin trickle of blood slides down my neck, the pain behind it lost amid greater hurt. I close my eyes and hope he will at least make it as painless as possible. He knows how much I hate pain.

My heart beats once. The double thud of one chamber pulling precious blood in and the other pushing it out is loud inside my head. For some stupid reason I open my eyes. Lance stands over me with a stunned expression on his face. His features twist, as if he is waging a war between his heart and mind. A tiny spark of hope erupts inside of me. There is a flicker of doubt in his eyes. I wait for him to drop his knife and wrap me up, show me that he would stand by me no matter what, that it was all a mistake. The only move he makes is to run for the door. Leaving me alone. Abandoning me.

The pain of his betrayal breaks me. When I look away from his retreating form, I am so furious and hurt that I almost don't see the resident Guardian stepping forward. The blade in his hand stops me cold. My anger at Lance evaporates as the Guardian steps into the room. I had momentarily forgotten him. But he would never miss this moment. Vigilant, the Guardian's only purpose is to find me, to kill me. I am suddenly within his reach.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that he knows he has just found his prize. Murderous victory is painted in every weathered line of his face. With his talents of Speed and Strength I know there is no hope of stopping him, not while I'm still in so much pain. My eyes lock with his and dare him to kill me while I face him. It's all the resistance I have left. It doesn't make a bit of difference.

He lunges toward me, his blade leading the way.

"Horace, no!" Inquisitor Moore cries out, his wizened hand snapping out to grab him with incredible Speed.

Horace turns a furious glare at the Inquisitor. "What are you doing?" he demands.

"Stop, Horace. You must not harm her."

"But...but she's..." He can't even say it. The venomous words refuse to form on his tongue. "I can see the diktats on her left wrist. I know that's the mark of the Destroyer! Don't try to tell me I'm wrong about this. You named her yourself. She has to be stopped!"

"Don't! You can't," Inquisitor Moore begs.

"I can't just let her go! She'll kill us all! I can stop her, now!"

Inquisitor Moore's wrinkled face hardens. "You would really kill her, Horace? A defenseless young woman? You would slice open her throat and watch her blood pool on the rug as the life fades from her eyes?"

Horace's eyes flash with a moment of doubt, before returning to their icy scowl. "I have to. She'll destroy us all if I don't. Get out of my way, Inquisitor."

The pain in my wrist finally begins to subside just as the overwhelming reality that I am about to die finally settles in. With it comes utter darkness.

Chapter 3

Gift

Opening my eyes is something I never thought I would do again. The harsh light and throbbing pain in my arm very nearly makes me cry. Exhaustion and pain beg me to drift back into unconsciousness, but I refuse. As sweet as still being alive is, I have no illusion that this is a permanent state of being for me. Whatever Inquisitor Moore said after I passed out is only going to postpone the inevitable. Even the highest ranking man in Albuquerque, New Mexico, can't save my life.

"Oh, thank goodness, you're awake, Libby. I was beginning to worry," says Inquisitor Moore as he sits down beside me. Jen is close on his heels. The Inquisitor's bleary eyes are red and wide, while Jen's cheeks are streaked with tears.

"What happened?" I ask. "Where's everyone else?"

"Jennifer is the only one still here. The others have all left. You are safe...for now." His last two words carry a subtle warning. It's one I don't need, though. Whatever made that Guardian stop, one of those blades will find me eventually. I'll deal with that later.

"How did you do it?" I ask him.

"He didn't," a voice says.

My eyes dart around the room furiously, landing on not one, but two men. For a moment I stare at them with no recognition, but only for a few seconds. When I realize who I'm staring at panic lodges itself in my throat, choking me in an attempt to finish what Lance started. The men stalk forward. Power follows in their wake like a blanket of pure evil descending on the room.

"P-President Howe," I stutter. I can't believe the president of the entire world, the ruling Guardian is standing in front of me. Was this why I was saved? So he could kill me himself?

"If you know who I am you should also recognize the man standing behind me," Howe says.

Ungluing my eyes from Howe takes considerable effort. I'm terrified that the moment I take my eyes off him his Guardian blade will slice through me like I was made of tissue paper. My gaze settles on the second man, still standing silently. "Vice President Lazaro," I acknowledge. He doesn't say anything. "What...why are you both here? How did you get here so fast?"

"I was warned that I might want to be in the area tonight," he says cryptically, clearly not about to offer any other explanation. I swallow slowly.

"Are you going to kill me now?"

"That," Howe says, "is still undecided."

"Why? I know the laws. When the Destroyer is found, she will be killed by Guardian blade." Word for word, that is the law. Why didn't it happen?

Howe rubs his chin. I think he was meaning to look thoughtful, but the only impression I got was of a villain plotting his next atrocity. I know who this man is. I've heard of the horrible things he's done. Killing me should be nothing to him.

"The problem is," Howe says, "you aren't actually the Destroyer yet. Your power was unlocked today, but only a portion of it. You won't gain your full power until age eighteen. Until then you can't be called into service by any class, either. You won't truly be the Destroyer until your eighteenth birthday."

"That was never how the law was supposed to be interpreted!" Lazaro fumes.

"I am the president. I can interpret the law however I want." Howe's voice never rises in pitch, but the deadly edge to his tone grows more frightening with each word.

"But why?" I ask. He's a Guardian. He rules the entire not-so-free world. I am the biggest threat to his power. The only threat, really.

"The law says to kill her!" Lazaro argues, breaking in before I can get an answer. "Do it now, Howe. Your one responsibility is to protect the world from her. Kill her!"

For this first time, Howe's expression cracks. "My responsibility?" He turns to glare at Lazaro. "My only responsibility is to ensure some conniving, underhanded leech doesn't try and steal my office from me."

Again, he never yells, just speaks in a way that freezes the marrow in my bones. He couldn't care less about the world in general, only keeping his position as an all-powerful demigod. That scares me almost as much as thinking he is here to kill me. I still don't understand what he's doing, but I'm terrified of finding out.

"How would not killing me help you?" I dare asking.

Howe turns back to me, a disturbing smile twisting his mouth. "I have been the president for twelve years. Some think I've held the position long enough. I rule with regret-free cruelty. It keeps everyone in line. However, I didn't get to this point solely by ridding myself of any competitors. I can see an opportunity when it falls in my lap."

"An opportunity?"

"You. Dripping acid into someone's eyes impresses Guardians, but the public doesn't like hearing about devices like that. They want to believe I care about their well-being even if deep down they know it's an illusion. I can kill anyone who tries to take my position," he says. Lazaro's hands ball into fists even though Howe never even glances at him. "I cannot force the general population to view me as anything more than a murderous demon. But feeling like that about their leader turns too quickly to revolt."

Howe brushes an imaginary piece of lint from his suit sleeve. The closest thing to a nervous tic I'm sure he would ever display, I take a wild guess that revolt is more likely than he wants to admit. Having had more than one run-in with the hospitality of Guardians, the possibility of someone taking their egos down a few notches forces me to hide my satisfaction.

"So where do I come in?" I ask, feeling a bit more brave.

"Killing a sixteen-year-old that has never hurt anyone despite having been named the Destroyer isn't going to improve my image. The majority of the world doesn't even believe in you, my dear." He chuckles, though I can't imagine why. There is no merriment in his eyes when he locks gazes with me. "Don't misinterpret that to think they won't spurn and hate you, because they will. I'll make sure of that."

"W-what do you mean?"

"Just trust me. I will." His smile turns vicious, making me sink into my chair. "If I give the people a new enemy to hate, they'll be distracted from their hated of me. Plus, I'll have earned a step back into their good graces by appearing merciful in sparing you. At least until you do something that forces me to end your life."

Howe stares at me with an expression of unbridled anticipation. "And I know you will. You'll unleash the power you do have and make my killing you a heroic act, one that will cement my position for good."

"I won't hurt anyone," I say fiercely.

He laughs. "You may think that now, but I guarantee you will change your mind about that soon enough."

I can guarantee he's wrong. I came to my Inquest believing I would be murdered because I would rather see my life ended than kill, break, and destroy like the stories about me say I will. Part of me is curious what he thinks will change my mind. It's a small part, and I ignore it for the time being, afraid of the minute chance he might be right.

"This is ridiculous!" Lazaro shouts. "Kill her now and be done with it, Howe."

"No. Not yet."

"You're only giving her the chance she needs to end everything. You're putting everything at risk!"

Howe moves slowly, turning to face Lazaro at a pace that sucks every last drop of color from Lazaro's face. "The choice is mine," Howe says calmly, "and it has been made. Libby will return to school tomorrow. She will do her homework like a good little girl and train, live her life as quietly as she can manage, and prove that I was right to grant her this reprieve."

Turning back to me, Howe says, "I really would appreciate it if you could hold off trying to destroy the world until your eighteenth birthday so I can kill you legally in full view of the entire world. Painting me as a hero probably doesn't sit well with you, but it is the only way you will earn two years you were never meant to have. Do we have an understanding?"

The temptation to kill him right now hums under my skin. I could do it. Probably. I have more power now than I used to, but that is more worrisome than reassuring. I saw Lance try to use his Speed and Strength moments after they were unlocked. He is the picture of grace now, but until he got a hold of his power, he stumbled and flailed more than anything. I wouldn't be facing just another couple of Guardians, either. I would be going against the two most powerful, most deadly Guardians on the planet. Destroyer or not, I don't like my odds. Accepting Howe's tainted gift is really my only option.

"We have an understanding," I say, the venom behind my words not hidden in the least.

"Wonderful," Howe says.

Having gotten what he wanted, Howe makes a military-style turn and walks out of the room. Lazaro, however, is not as quick stepping. Instead of following his leader, he glares at me. "Howe may be idiotic enough to let you live, but trust me when I say that if the opportunity presents itself, I will kill you."

Then he too leaves the room, storming out in a flourish of fury pouring off his body. Their absence leaves the room muted and hollow. I feel as if they sucked out every drop of life and hope out of my soul in the few minutes they were present. I thought I knew exactly what this night would bring when I walked through the Inquisitor's doors tonight. A two year extension and a visit from Howe and Lazaro had never once entered my mind as a possibility. I am scared to death of both of them, but they are a distant threat I do not want to think about right now. I have two years to worry about what they might do. In spite of the bizarreness of what just happened, one fact dominates my mind.

"Two years," I whisper. My life will be over in two years. To some that might seem like a short span of time, but to me, a person who realized as a small child who I was, living to age eighteen is two years longer than I ever thought I would have.

Inquisitor Moore stands, heaving out a great sigh of relief. "Thank goodness they're gone."

He shudders. Jen looks as if she is about to shake herself to death. A calming hand on her shoulder offered by Inquisitor Moore helps to calm her down somewhat. When he seems convinced Jen isn't going to go into shock, he faces me.

"As long as you stay out of the Guardians' way you'll be safe until you turn eighteen. I wish I could offer you more, but you have a little hope for now. Despite what Lazaro said, Howe will keep the Guardians in line."

I don't share his confidence, but I don't care to argue about it right now.

"That means Lance can't come after you again either," Jen says softly.

Her comment hits me just as hard as the relief did a few minutes ago. I have two years to convince the world I don't plan on destroying anything, two years to convince both the Guardians and my boyfriend not to murder me. Ex-boyfriend, I tell myself bitterly. His betrayal sinks into me like a burning machete. He abandoned me like almost everyone else in my life has. I could almost forgive him for anything else, but not for that. Even if I wanted to try and fix things with him—which I don't—the quick way he jumped up to end my life and then bolted when he failed is a pretty clear indication of how he feels about the possibility. I will never feel his lips against mine again, never lay in his arms as we watched movies together, never again call him when I need help and understanding.

Stinging tears roll down my cheeks as the familiar, deep-set ache of loss settles into me. I never actually thought he would turn against me. At the most, I thought he might be scared of what I might do, worried about me changing, but never did I think he would try to kill me. He was so fast. Not even a breath of hesitation before he was trying to gut me. I used to enjoy watching him play football. Even without his full power he could dart or barrel past anyone on the field, but tonight was no game. I will never see his abilities as anything more than weapons now. My sense of loss deepens to a crippling level.

Trembling from head to toe as I cry, I can't feel anything but my pain. Jen wrapping her arms around me and pulling me into a comforting embrace is the only thing able to break through my agony. "I'm so sorry," she whispers.

It takes several more supernaturally long minutes for me to be able to pull back and face her. "Th-thanks for staying, Jen," I stammer. The hiccups that always plague me after a bad fit of crying break up my words, but my honest appreciation still comes through.

"Of course," she says. Jen takes my hands. Her fingers brush across my wrist, making me flinch with pain. Her eyes snap down to my diktats and her face pales.

I don't want anything to do with them, but my gaze slides down regardless. I expect to see brilliant red from the trauma of the diktats taking shape, but my eyes widen at the unexpected sight I'm faced with. Standing out against my flesh are jet black, half-inch long raised vertical scars that completely encircle my wrist, their unnatural perfection a ring of judgment that feels like a noose tightening by the second. It takes me a second to really process the color. They're black. They aren't supposed to be black.

"What happened?" I ask, my voice quavering.

"They turned black a few minutes after you passed out, when the initial swelling went down," Inquisitor Moore explains. "I have never seen that happen before. It must be a mark of who you are."

A quick rise in my heart rate propels me toward panic. I look up to find Inquisitor Moore staring at them as well, his face filled with amazement, confusion, and remorse. When his eyes peel away from me they go to his own wrist, the right one instead of the left where my diktats lay. He is the most powerful man I know, yet his flesh colored diktats only spread across the underside of his wrist. Anyone who sees my wrist will instantly know what I am.

"You'll want to keep those covered as much as possible, Libby. I know it won't keep people from finding out—it sounded like Howe would take care of that—but there's no point in reminding them if you don't have to," he says. He's talking about the diktats, of course, but the gentle urging in his expression conveys more than his actual words. The diktats aren't the only thing he wants me to hide. My talents need to be as nonexistent as possible. I nod in response to both warnings. Hiding isn't anything new for me.

Coming down from the shock of a few moments ago brings on a throbbing headache. I don't want to think about any of this anymore. Tomorrow will be horrible enough without making it worse by dwelling on it now. For whatever is left of tonight, I just want to crawl into bed and be happy I'm still alive. By tomorrow I might be wishing Lance had finished what he started.

"Jen, can you drive me home? I don't think I'm up for driving right now."

Jen and Inquisitor Moore both freeze before dropping their gazes down to the Oriental rug covering the hardwood floor.

"What?" I ask wearily.

"Your mom had your bags dropped off about an hour ago," Jen says quietly.

I suppose that should send me into another crying jag. My mother has kicked me out. Blood wasn't enough to make her stick by me. My body stiffens in anger instead.

"Do you think your parents would let me stay the night?" I ask Jen. "Just for tonight. I'll figure something else out tomorrow."

Shaking her head so slightly I almost miss it, Jen tries to blink away her tears. "I already called. They won't let you stay. I tried to tell them you weren't going to hurt anything, but they wouldn't listen. I'm sorry, Libby."

I look over at Inquisitor Moore. His head dips in shame. "President Howe already forbade me from taking you in, Libby. They'll go after my daughter and her family if I try to help you."

I nod and try to keep more tears from falling. I would never ask him to risk his daughter for me.

"I did call my uncle, though," Jen says quickly, "the one that owns that motel downtown. He said that as long as you stay out of the way of the other guests, you can stay in one of his rooms...for a while at least. I didn't want to tell him about tonight, but he wouldn't agree to let you stay if I didn't explain."

A one room hotel room in the middle of historic downtown Albuquerque, an area filled with tourists, vagrants, and probably a smattering of criminals. And my being a young, single, and attractive white girl. It sounds heavenly.

I sulk for a moment before perking up. It sounds like exactly what I need, actually. I'll be one more person in a throng of ever changing faces. Cover up my diktats, keep my head down, and nobody will ever notice me. Outside of school, that is. I still have to go to school thanks to Howe. I have enough trouble coming my way without Concealment Officers breaking down my door for ditching. So much for never having to do homework again.

"Thanks, Jen. Tell your uncle thanks for me. I'd tell him myself, but..."

She nods. Her uncle is only willing to let this happen if he never has to see me and be reminded of who he is allowing into his establishment.

"I'll drive you over," Jen says. "I'm sure you want to get out of here as much as I do."

I agree heartily. We rise together, and I find myself facing Inquisitor Moore again. His face is pained, almost as much as the first time we saw each other after my dad died. "I'm so sorry I wasn't able to do more for you tonight, Libby. I want to help you, but..." His voice dies away in shame.

"We need a good Inquisitor here, one who knows the people, and who everyone trusts," I finish for him. He offers me a weak smile, but his guilt doesn't dissipate. "Besides," I continue, "you've done more for me in stopping that Guardian from killing me than I had any right to expect. I came here tonight knowing I would probably die. You kept me from dying long enough for Howe to grant me his twisted mercy. You gave me two years I never thought I would have."

Both his and Jen's eyes burst wide in shock. "You knew?" Inquisitor Moore asks.

I nod. I never planned on telling him, but I can't walk away from him leaving him feeling so guilty.

"How long?" he asks at the same time Jen does.

"I figured it out when I was seven. Dad didn't see it until I was ten, though. I tried to hide it from him, but he figured it out anyway. Sometimes I think he only doubted me because his Perception caught the lie. I never slipped up around him, never."

He always was too smart for his own good. Of course, he always said the exact same thing about me, too.

"Without doing an Inquest?" Jen asked. "How could he figure out who you were without doing an Inquest?"

Inquisitor Moore shakes his head. "Andrew Sparks was the most talented Perceptive I have ever met. He didn't need an Inquest to see anything." Bone-deep pain bubbles to the surface of Inquisitor Moore's features, making him shrink in on himself even more. "Maybe if Andrew were still alive he would have known what to do. Maybe he would have been able to set things right."

"No," I say forcefully, bitterly, "he wouldn't have been able to do anything more than you."

They stare at me, Jen in confusion, Inquisitor Moore in curious doubt, but the force of my statement is enough to forestall any questions.

"It's late," Inquisitor Moore says. "Jennifer, you'd better take Libby to your uncle's hotel. I'll have your car dropped off there as well, Libby. Call me if you need anything. I'll try to help you the best I can."

"I know you will. Thanks, Papa Moore."

He smiles at the nickname I gave him years before when I thought he really was my grandfather. We hug each other tightly before Jen and I leave for the hotel, which turns out to be much nicer than I expected. Jen takes care of getting the keys from the front desk.

Now we both stand in the middle of the room surveying it. Clean, is my first thought. I worried the whole ride over that I would be afraid to lie down at night. My second thought is how small it is. My bedroom back home was at least twice as big. My third thought, the one that actually manages to put a small smile on my mouth, is that it's empty. No spiteful mother hovering over me with her hateful glares and barbed remarks. She has disowned me in every practical sense of the word, but maybe that isn't such a bad thing.

"What do you think?" Jen asks.

"It's great. I like it, actually."

She frowns. "Are you sure?" Glancing back at the dimly lit parking lot, her frown deepens.

"Don't worry, Jen, I'll be fine. This is actually pretty nice. And it really doesn't look that scary out there. It's too close to the museums to have too much crime, I bet."

"You have your cell phone?"

I pull it out of my pocket for her to see, noticing that my service bars are still full. Mom hasn't gotten around to cancelling it yet, I guess. That probably won't last long. But Jen doesn't need to know that right now.

"Jen, I'll be fine."

"I know, but...I hate this, Libby."

"I know."

Her fingers tighten around her keys. "I'd stay and make sure you're settled in okay, but my parents don't know where I am and they'll start freaking out soon, especially if they realize I'm with you. I'm sorry, Libby."

Normally Jen doesn't worry too much about her parents' wishes, but I understand why she does when it comes to this. Both of her parents are Guardians. "Quit apologizing, Jen. None of this is your fault. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you at school in the morning, okay?"

"Okay," she says after a moment's hesitation. "Call me if you need anything."

I nod that I will and watch her slip out of the room. The rumble of her car retreating is the only sound in the night air. It fades away and leaves nothing behind. Jen and Inquisitor Moore are my only allies, but even they are limited in what they're willing to give. As the terrible knowledge of what I am spreads, I wonder if their tenuous help will break under the flood. The man who I called Papa, the friend I would do anything for, in the end I know they will abandon me just as surely as my own mother has. I am alone. In every sense of the word imaginable.

The emptiness of the room that had given me a burst of satisfaction just a few moments ago suddenly takes on weight, crushing against me until my knees buckle. Falling to the floor amid my bags, my entire collection of possessions, I stare blankly at the wall in front of me. Two years. Of this. Maybe that isn't the gift I thought it was after all.

Chapter 4

Unaware

Staring at the school's double doors from my car, I beg myself to turn the key and simply drive away. I don't want to face this. I can't stand the idea of running into Lance today. Seeing any shade of hatred in his eyes will break me. After last night, I feel as weak as a kitten. Don't get me wrong, I'm mad as hell at him for turning on me, but his betrayal is still too fresh to let my anger overpower the crushing hurt. There is no way I can be anywhere near him today.

My hand refuses to turn the ignition. Ditching is tolerated as long as it isn't excessive, but only before a student's Inquest. After, one class missed and the Concealment Officers are scouring the streets for you. The idea of being caught by those thugs again makes me shiver hard enough that the keys I'm touching jangle anxiously. Talent training is taken way too seriously. Especially since most of the students will be slotted into mundane jobs like accounting or business management.

Only a select few actually become part of the lifeblood that keeps our society together, the Specialists, people whose talents are so profound that they can use them to police, find, or see in ways others cannot. But it doesn't matter that so few are chosen, the process of examining the teenage population for the gems is more important than anything else. We wouldn't survive without the Specialists. At least that's what the Guardians believe.

Slowly, I pull my keys from the ignition and take a deep breath. This is going to be hell.

The walk from my car to the doors passes in strained silence. I'm early. I wanted to try and slip into my first class before anyone else could notice me. The problem, I realize as I stand in the empty hallway, is that I have no idea what class I'm supposed to be going to. My Inquest will have changed my schedule, dramatically. I only had my old schedule for barely two weeks. All of my electives will be replaced with talent training. Which leads to another problem. I only had four electives before, but now I have seven talents. My feet drag me toward the office as I wonder if they will even be able to fit everything in.

They can't.

I stare at my new schedule and try to keep the bile in the bottom of my stomach where it belongs. My first three periods cover the only three general education classes I'm still required to take, English, History, and Trigonometry. Get the unimportant ones out of the way first, I suppose. My fourth hour makes me want to cry and throw the tacky grey chair I'm sitting on across the floor at the same time. Speed and Strength training. Lance will be in that class. All the football players will be there with him, training to become Guardians. With their Guardian blades strapped precariously around their left arms.

My fingers reach up and touch the scab that formed over where Lance's blade nicked me last night. I can't face that again. But what choice do I have? Blocking myself from even thinking about it, I scan the rest of my schedule. Spiritualism and Perception training in place of lunch and fifth hour, Concealment and Vision together in sixth hour since those two are so commonly paired, Naturalism seventh. That should have been the end, seven classes, but I spot one more lurking at the end of the list. My Class Preparatory Course, the first time this class has ever been offered at any school anywhere. Destroyer 101.

"You got to be kidding me. I can't believe this."

I was talking more to myself than Principal Andrews, but she answers me anyway. "What I can't believe is that I'm even being forced to let you step foot back in my school. President Howe's orders or not, it's insane that they're making me train the...train you."

"You don't have a choice," I say without looking at her.

"I am well aware of that," she snaps. "He called me last night and demanded I let you return to school. I have no idea what this is about, but I will not let you terrorize this school."

"I have no intention of terrorizing anyone," I say, just as incensed as she is.

I get Howe's reasoning for keeping me alive, but not for forcing me to go back to school. Refusing to let me come back would have isolated me, challenged my confidence, and may have even led me toward depression and paranoia. I would have been more likely to make mistakes or act out. Why keep me here with everyone else, training me to fulfill my destiny, when that is the exact opposite of what he should be doing? President Howe is vicious and smart, the most powerful and evil of all the Guardians. He wouldn't be president if he wasn't. Nobody votes the president in, he takes it by force. He wouldn't have done this without a good reason. There is a reason he chose to subject me to high school rather than exile. It could be a simple desire to keep an eye on me, but I doubt that.

"If it were up to me you'd be locked up right now," Principal Andrews continues, interrupting my thoughts and striking a not so pleasant nerve with me. I glare up at her with my class schedule clenched between my fingers.

"I haven't done anything! They don't have any right to touch me!"

She pulls away from me visibly, and says, "Yet."

That single word quells my burst of anger and makes me shrink back. She claimed not to know the full story behind me not being dead, but her comment makes me wonder how much she really knows. I don't want to think about it too deeply so I force my attention back to my schedule. It does not make me feel any better. The silence of her office feels so oppressive. I say the first thing I can think of to alleviate it.

"When do I eat lunch?" I ask. I hate how weak my voice sounds. I hate even more how Principal Andrews' voice has gone from angry to fearful in the face of my outburst.

"You'll have to eat between classes. There just wasn't enough room for you to have a lunch break. There wasn't even enough time to fit all your classes into the regular seven periods. I did the best I could. You'll just have to make it work, Ca...Libby," Principal Andrews sputters.

Her falter at the end makes me sink in on myself even more. Usually she insists on calling every student by their true name. She can't force herself to utter mine or even make herself look at me now. She's staring at the papers in front of her like they might jump up and devour her face if she takes her eyes off them. I can't help wanting to slap her.

"You may go, Libby. First period starts in five minutes."

Anger hot enough to sear the fear right out of me flares to life. "Thank you for your help, Principal Andrews," I say through clenched teeth. The fury in my voice shocks her enough to finally make her look up at me. She flinches away almost instantly. The pen in her hand is rattling against her papers as I hastily pull down my shirt sleeve to make sure my diktats are covered. She cringes at the movement.

In a moment of clarity I realize she's honestly terrified of me underneath her earlier anger. She has known me for years, and she's afraid I'm going to hurt her. Anger morphs into twisting nausea, hitting me and making me stumble out of the room. The hallway is bustling with people trying to make it to class on time, but I barely notice them.

I have a death grip on my bag and simply stand against the wall taking deep breaths, waiting for my heart and stomach to calm back down. My heart wins the race, but my stomach seems content to stay as it is. Shrill and irritating, the warning bell rips through the hallway. Students dart into classrooms. I have to force myself to push away from the wall and trudge through my first three periods. It takes nearly inhuman strength to make myself walk into the gym locker room and dress down for Speed and Strength training.

The shorts and t-shirt I pull on are familiar, but the strip of painted fabric I strap around my left wrist is a new addition. I made it last night in an attempt to muddle through some of my emotions. The fuchsia fabric I started with can barely even be seen beneath the angry slashes of black, electric blue blotches, and splashes of nearly every other color I had on hand. Color and lines usually do wonders for calming me, but last night I was too close to bursting to do much more than take the edge off. Not much has changed since then. I trudge out of the locker room feeling ready to either puke or hurt someone, or possibly both.

I'm not the only girl in the class, thankfully, but I am the last one to walk out onto the basketball court. As I feared, the entire gathering of students freezes and falls silent when they notice me. Lance's presence seems to beat against my skin, but I refuse to look at anything other than the wooden planks beneath my feet. The court needs to be refinished. I try to focus on the individual scratches and cracks as the coach, Guardian Clement, calls the group to order. He begins calling roll, and pauses when he gets to the end of the list. I can imagine my name penciled in at the bottom with a note about who I am.

"Uh, Libitina Sparks?" he asks. I raise my hand only enough to make sure he sees it. He looks at me and frowns. His clipboard lowers slightly as he considers me and I realize there is a Guardian blade sitting on it. Apparently he was told he had a new student, but until now he didn't know the details.

"Libby, you weren't named to the Guardian class, apparently, so I guess you don't actually need this." He gestures to the knife. "Unless you want it, I guess. You are in the class and we do train with knives."

Feral snarls rise from the gathered group, letting their coach know how they feel about him giving the one meant to destroy their world a weapon. Guardian Clement blinks in surprise. Amazingly enough, I'm with them. I shake my head and step back.

"Uh, yeah, that's probably best, I guess," Guardian Clement says. He stuffs the blade into one of his pockets and turns back to the gathered Guardians-in-training. "We've got a new student, so bear with me while I give her the basics."

Turning back to me, he says in a tone that makes it clear he's given this speech hundreds of time before, "Guardians are protectors of our world by birthright. In this class you will learn to master the skills of a Guardian. We have one mission. Stop the Destroyer. The Destroyer's purpose is to end our world, destroy our society. The Guardians are the only ones who can stop her. The Destroyer is the greatest threat the Guardians will ever face and _we will stop her_. Any questions?"

That last sentence was clearly directed at me. Confusion fills my mind. I can't believe he was able to spout all of that without flying into a hateful rage. He's faced with the one he's meant to stop, no matter the cost, and he delivered it like he was bored. All the stories Lance told me about how intense and freakishly dedicated Guardian Clement is don't add up. All I can do is shake my head quickly and hope he'll move on. My prayers are answered.

Guardian Clement waves the clipboard at the class. "Let's get started then. Line up behind the cones. We'll be going over some of the fundamentals today. Twenty-five times through the cones then fifty laps around the gym to warm up."

I literally feel my jaw drop. The cones run the entire length of the court. I am supposed to run through those twenty-five times, and then run fifty laps around the gym? And this is supposed to be our warm up? This guy has to be insane. I'll be on the sidelines puking before I even get halfway through. The coach must have noticed my shock because he wanders over to me without making it obvious that is what he's doing. At least he isn't too scared of me to even look at me.

"Don't worry, Libby, it'll be easier than you think. You've probably already noticed that you're faster and stronger than some of your friends, people usually do, but until the Inquisitor actually unlocks you're talents you're only getting hints of what you'll be able to do one day."

He motions toward the cones. I look up, surprised to see that the fifteen people in front of me have already made it through the first lap and are waiting on me.

"Give it a try," he says, an almost excited gleam in his eyes.

I hesitate briefly before walking up to the cones and shifting my weight to the balls of my feet. Everyone in the room is staring at me. Guardian Clement is urging me on with a gentle wave and a building smile. For some reason his childlike enthusiasm to see me taste my talents for the first time makes me relax. Somewhat. Watching Lance for the last year, I know how incredibly fast Speed makes a person, and Strength gives the body the endurance and power it needs to withstand the furious forces moving so quickly puts on a body. I have watched Lance countless times and wished I could wrap myself in that cloak of invincibility, run like I am flying. I nearly burst forward without thinking.

But then I remember what my moment of joy would do to the room of eager killers surrounding me. My muscles tense all over my body. I can feel my limbs gathering their strength, begging to be put to use. I step forward, and break into a light jog. Or what everyone else would consider a light jog. My face purses in serious concentration even though making my body move and go where I want it to at this speed takes only a fraction of my brain power. I'm running slightly faster than any non-Speed-enhanced person might, but nothing close to the blur of motion I should be demonstrating.

Turning around the last cone, I start back, opening my mouth to gasp in a breath as if I have to strain to maintain my paltry speed. With so little of my mind on what my body is doing I find myself wondering if anyone is buying my act. I look up on reflex and find Lance staring at me very intently. The doubt in his eyes frightens me, causing me to lose my concentration. I step on a cone instead of dodging it and the rubbery shape collapses, sending my ankle to the right while the rest of me keeps going to the left.

The thwack of my hip hitting the wood floor resounds through the silence. Several people wince. Lance only stares. Guardian Clement looks confused. He walks over to me and pauses. His brows screw up for several long seconds before he shakes his head and offers me his hand. I take it, amazed that he is willing to help me up. The pain in my ankle is already fading due to my Strength, but I remind myself to play it up and only touch it gingerly to the floor when I stand. Guardian Clement frowns again, as does Lance.

"Are you okay?" Clement asks.

"Yeah, I think so." I wiggle my ankle experimentally. "I don't think it's sprained. I'll be fine in a minute or two. Sorry about that. I'm not the most athletic person in the world. Just a-" I cut myself off before saying, "Just ask Lance," and quickly backtrack. "Just so you know. I'm not clumsy as much as accident prone. Hopefully I won't hurt myself too badly in here."

"Uh, yeah. It's just that Speed and Strength usually take care of...deficiencies in athletic ability. Maybe you just need some time, though. Some kids have pretty traumatic Inquests. I'm sure you'll shake it off in the next few days."

I smile warily. "Yeah, maybe."

"You okay to keep going?"

"Sure. I'm fine now." Faking being incompetent is one thing., Making everybody hate me for shirking what they obviously take deadly serious is another.

Guardian Clement nods and motions me back into line. The rest of the cone running exercise flies by without any other incidents, and we move on to running laps. Lance watches me every second, passing me ten times for every one lap I run. My slow pace should have put me in everyone's way, but their intense desire to avoid me, added to their ridiculous agility, makes it an easy thing for everyone to give me a wide berth. Still, I fell pretty sure it's the equivalent of knocking into the loser kid in gym class to see how many times you can bump him before he goes sprawling.

I'm sure I'm going to have to endure another fifty minutes of this until the gym doors swing open. In true Guardian style, they slam against the walls in a blatant and childish display of their Strength. Everyone looks startled by their appearance, but I am more than a little shocked. I knew Inquisitor Moore was wrong about Howe being able to keep the other Guardians in line, I just hadn't expected them to rebel so soon.

I step back slowly, my eyes on the locker rooms. The pack of five Guardians marches toward Clement. Halfway to him one of them notices my slinking and breaks away from the pack. His eyes gleam hungrily as he taps his Speed and catches me by the arm. The others pay him no attention as he accosts me.

"Where are you trying to run off to, Cassia?"

"Get your hands off me. You can't touch me. Howe forbids you..."

He jerks me closer to him. "Howe doesn't have as much power as he thinks he does. Lazaro won't let him ruin everything we've built."

I expect him to pull his knife. Instead he shoves me away from him. As he turns back toward his brothers he says, "Don't get too comfortable under Howe's blanket of protection."

Ready to run for real this time, I take the first step toward hiding in the girls' locker room when one of the Guardians' voices boom out over the gym.

"Adam Mendoza!"

Speed flings someone through the gathered teens. The figure bolts for the exit, but two of the Guardians tackle him to the ground.

"No!" he screams. "I don't want to be a Guardian!"

"You never had a choice," one Guardian snipes before hauling the kid up off the ground. Struggling, begging for help, Adam's cries echo through the gym. Nobody moves to help him, including me. Guardian rule is absolute. That phrase echoes in my head repeatedly, feeling truer now than it ever has before.

Adam disappears through the gym doors, and class resumes as if nothing happened. It sickens me, but I can't do anything but follow their lead. The rest of the class crawls by torturously. Clement's whistle signaling the end of class is the sweetest sound I have ever heard. I make a beeline for the locker room, careful not to go too fast, and disappear into the steam of a dozen showers all firing at once. Taking my time would have been wonderful but the final bell for the class will ring in only ten minutes. I lather my body as quickly as possible and rinse in record time. I'm twisting my wet hair into a knot five minutes later as I walk out of the locker room.

I start scuttling across the gym for the doors, but the sight of a frowning Lance stalking over to Guardian Clement makes me slow down. I'm too far away to hear what he's saying, but when Lance spots me, the look in his eyes freezes me in place. Frustrated. Determined. Relentless. For a moment I think I see a hint of regret, but I'm sure I just imagined it. Guardian Clement turns when he notices Lance's attention has wandered, one eyebrow rising in a question. Lance's lips move, most of it a jumble but for the last word. That one I recognize clearly. Destroyer.

Understanding hits both Guardian Clement and me at the same time. He didn't know. The Class space next to my name must have been left blank. He had known I wasn't a Guardian, but the office neglected to tell him exactly who I was, probably to avoid sending the Guardian coach into a psychotic frenzy. I sag in disappointment as I realize the man's kindness toward me today will never be repeated. Not judging by the way he's baring his teeth at me now. Lance actually has to grab his arm before he moves toward me. At least he stops him. It's probably only because he wants to have the honor himself.

Suddenly, I think I understand why President Howe insisted I come back to school. Being alone would be preferable to watching everyone I know turn against me. He wants me to live every minute of the next two years being hated and despised more than any other person on this planet. I can feel tears running down my cheeks as I duck away from them both and scramble out the doors into the hall filled with people who are still blissfully unaware that their deaths are riding around on my shoulders.

Chapter 5

Embrace

Not that it was surprising that my mom drained my lunch account, but a little warning would have been nice. I have my own money. I didn't even think about it last night, though, and all I could get to eat today was an apple. The lunch lady here is a real gem. The thunk of my meager lunch hitting the only empty desk draws the attention of the people seated around me in my Perception class. I pointedly ignore their hateful glares.

Until I dig through my bag to find a pencil and realize I must have lost my only one when Angus and Marvin knocked me into a row of lockers and _accidentally_ kicked my bag halfway down the hall. They, and the other members of Lance's pack, have worked hard to make sure everyone knows about last night. They've been as bad as the stupid school Guardian following me around all day.

I expected the nasty reaction people would have to me when they found out, but I'm still sick of it, regardless. If those idiot football players touch me again, I'm going to have a hard time not letting my Strength show. Right on their jaws. Irritation sweeps through me deeply, and I turn away from my bag in search of a pencil. As soon as I look up every set of eyes is suddenly keenly interested in what the teacher is saying. All but one.

Seeing anything past his much too long, unbrushed brown hair is tricky. One raised eyebrow and the fact that he is still looking at me says one of two things. He's either spent the entire day with the ear phones I can see trailing out from under his hair firmly stuck in his ears, and he has no idea why everyone else looks ready to murder me where I sit, or he doesn't care. I'm pretty sure it's the first one. Either way, I need a pencil, and he is the only one available to ask.

"Hey, um..." I don't think I've ever seen this guy before. I have no idea what his name is. Great way to start off asking for a favor.

Noticing my helplessness, he goes from curious to mildly amused. "Milo," he says. His deep voice resonates despite its low volume. The contrast of his voice and unkempt appearance is striking.

I force myself to ignore it and get on with my request before the hawk-faced teacher at the front snaps at me. "Milo, can I borrow a pencil? I lost mine."

"Sure," he says with a shrug. Taking the pencil off his still closed notebook, he hands it over to me.

"Don't you need that one?" I ask.

"Not likely." Then he closes his slate grey eyes and slumps down in his chair even further.

Great. The one person still willing to talk to me—except maybe Jen, if I could find her anywhere—and he happens to be a hopeless, grungy slacker. Although he does have a surprisingly clear skin and masculine features for being so sloppy. I really wish Jen was a junior like me, instead of a sophomore. Maybe I'd actually see her if we were in the same grade. At least this Milo character is in my grade since he's the only one willing to talk to me. All I've got is this guy. Beggars can't be choosers.

"Thanks," I whisper.

His nod is barely perceptible, but he does deign himself to open one eye and glance at me again before falling back into a stupor. Done making friends for the day, I turn back to the teacher and try very hard to concentrate on what she is telling everyone. Unfortunately for me, she's blathering on about the basics of what having a talent for Perception means, just as all of my other talent teachers have felt the need to do today. That might be as much of a reason for all the hostile looks I've been getting as for being the Destroyer. Sitting through a lecture you have to hear every time another student goes through their Inquest can easily be a fate worse than death.

The stupidest part is that I already know everything she's trying to tell me. I've been hiding my talents for longer than Ms. Hernandez has been teaching. Plus, my dad was one of the most powerful Perceptives in the Southwest before he died. I've known how to discern lies from truth since I was eight years old. I can feel it on my skin when someone near me has an emotional reaction to something. Reading their distress or joy to find the source is almost second nature to me. I do it without thinking most of the time and filter it out just as easily. Which I do as a force of habit to stay sane and out of other people's business. I could perform an Inquest right now if the need were to suddenly arise, as ridiculously unlikely as that would be.

Of all the classes I don't need an introduction to it is this one. I don't want to look like I'm taking after Milo over there, so I studiously try to take notes while I eat my lone apple and pretend I have no clue about anything. That ends up being harder than I expect. Not only is Ms. Hernandez's voice so piercing and irksome that I can barely stand to listen to it, Milo distracts me every few minutes by rousing from his music-induced slumber to watch me. His obvious amusement at my attempt to be a good student starts rubbing on my raw nerves very quickly.

When the bell rings, only a few decibels more shrill than Ms. Hernandez's voice, I snap my notebook closed and hand the pencil back to Milo even though it means having to ask someone else to borrow one in my next class. Milo only huffs out a little laugh.

"No, no, keep it. You'll get more use out of it than I will." Leaving me hanging with the pencil dangling from my fingers, he turns and walks out of the room. Irritated more than ever, I shove the pencil in my bag and stalk out of the room as well. Any delusions I had of concentrating through the rest of my classes disappears entirely as I rush through the crowd. Perception training is the only class I have with Milo, but his irritating little smirks and remarks stay with me through my sixth and seventh hours. Only the rapid clearing of the halls after seventh hour steals enough of my tangled emotions to allow me to let most of it go. Walking into my last class of the day to find a smiling little old man beckoning me to take my seat is enough to push the rest of it away.

He obviously knows who I am since he's teaching a class on what it means to be the Destroyer, but instead of shrinking away from me he welcomes me by taking my hands in his and shaking them gently.

"Which do you prefer to be called, Libitina or Cassia?" he asks.

"Neither. I'm Libby."

"Pity," he says with a shake of his head, "Cassia is a beautiful name."

"Not when it's yours," I mumble.

I didn't say it loud enough to be heard, but the man who looks like he should be relying on hearing aids to catch anything stops when I say it and turns back to me. "It's a beautiful name regardless of what it stands for, and maybe even because of it."

I don't see how that could be, but I ask anyway. "What do you mean?"

He smiles knowingly, and says, "Maybe by the time you finish this class you'll understand."

He walks up to the front of the classroom and composes himself visibly. "Well, why don't we get started? I am Mr. Walters and we have a lot to cover this year."

Well, he has a lot to cover this year. I have already spent years researching the scarce information available about the Destroyer. At first I did it alone. Searching books, the internet, anything I could get my hands on that had to do with the Destroyer. It wasn't very encouraging. After my dad figured out who I was, he helped me find out more, sharing everything he'd learned through his work with Inquisitor Moore. Between the two of us, we learned by heart every story and legend surrounding my destiny, every hint about my future—what few there were—and a small collection of secrets and warnings neither of us ever told anyone else. As much as we learned about how scary and terrible I'm supposed to be, I never really figured out what it was, specifically, I was supposed to do that was so horrible. I mean, sure, I'm supposed to destroy the world, but how? When? And most importantly, why? Those secrets are still hidden somewhere.

"I do hope you are patient with me, Libby," Mr. Walters says, interrupting my thoughts, "because I only received this assignment late last night and had very little time to prepare. It's not an easy task to consolidate a lifetime of research into a curriculum overnight. And we only have an hour at a time to work with. I do hope that by the end of the year you'll have a better understanding of what you will be expected to do as the only member of the Destroyer class."

"Uh, really?"

You would think the majority of the world would be much happier if I had no idea what I was supposed to do as the Destroyer. I'm not even sure I want to know what I'm supposed to do. Every time I've tried to find out it never led anywhere good, so now I'd like to avoid finding out in the hopes that if I don't know I'll never actually do anything bad.

"Of course, dear. You have to know your purpose in life if you expect to ever accomplish it, don't you?"

There is something wrong with this man. "But I don't want to fulfill my purpose. I don't want to hurt or destroy anything. You don't want me to do that either. Nobody does!"

"Well, of course no one wants to see you harm anyone, but that's hardly the point," Mr. Walters says.

"How is that not the point?"

"Because the point of this class is to teach you to be the best Destroyer you can possibly be. What you do with that knowledge is completely up to you, but I refuse to have a student leave one of my classes not fully trained to do their duty."

He's serious. As if my killing people a few years from now has no bearing on his teaching me to do it, he opens his notebook and instructs me to do the same. What choice do I have but to follow him?

"Now," he says, "I have been researching the Destroyer class most of my life. It has always fascinated me that there is only one member, one single person meant to destroy our entire society. When we have millions of Guardians to fight against the Destroyer, Visionaries who might see her coming, Concealers to find her, etc., I have always been curious about how this one person is actually meant to succeed."

I cough and interrupt his rambling. "If the Destroyer, me, has all the talents of the ones meant to stop me, then all I have to do is use the talents I have against them, right? That's hardly a mystery."

"Precisely," he says, "but the problem is that while a Guardian only needs to focus on honing Speed and Strength, you must master all seven talents if you have any hope of surviving past your eighteenth birthday. Mastering one or two talents takes years, decades even, but you only have two years. That, my dear, is the real question that has plagued me for so long. How can one person reach perfection before the whole world turns on her?"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that would be something of a problem, if I was planning on actually surviving longer than two years," I say.

Mr. Walters simply blinks at me. "You mean you don't plan on surviving?"

"Uh, not really."

"Why not?"

"Because it's impossible, for one, and surviving would mean hurting people, ruining lives. I don't want to be a part of that. I'd rather let one of those psychotic Guardians slice me into little pieces than watch myself do the same thing to someone else."

No matter what anyone says, I will not hurt anyone. Not again.

Walking over to my desk at a slow, thoughtful pace, Mr. Walters surprises me by touching his index finger to the spot of dried blood on my neck. "If you don't want your gifts then why didn't you let Lance or the Guardian kill you last night? Why don't you kill yourself right now?"

He pushes back his blazer sleeve and snatches the Guardian blade out of its sheath so quickly I barely see more than a flash of light on steel before it is pressing against my throat. A Guardian. My heart is pounding against my chest, my mind screaming at me to run. I am alone in a room with a Guardian who is apparently obsessed with the Destroyer. With me. And he has a knife balanced exactly against my carotid artery. Black spots fleck my vision and I realize I'm hyperventilating. It requires all my quickly vanishing willpower to tap my Naturalism and slow my breathing enough to see clearly again.

"If you ask me to kill you, I will do that for you, Libby, though I would not take any pleasure in it," Mr. Walters says. "Or if you prefer to end your life by your own hand, I will not stop you. Either way, if death is what you truly want, I will allow you to have it. Right here. Right now. This is the only time I will make this offer, Libby. It is your choice."

The pressure of the blade on my skin increases slightly, and I cry out. "No! No don't!"

Instantly the knife is withdrawn, back in its sheath like it never left. "Why?" he asks.

"Because I don't want to die," I say. Tears bleed down my cheeks and I wipe them away furiously, angrily.

"You will die eventually. There is no doubting that."

"But I don't want to die yet, not today. Not for as long as I can manage it." Maybe it's wrong to want to live. With everything I've done, and am, I probably deserve to die. But I don't want to. Not yet.

Placing his hands on my desk, Mr. Walters leans forward. His wizened features grow eerily strong and firm as he peers down at me. "If you don't want to die, then you have to embrace who and what you are, Libby. Becoming the Destroyer is the only thing that is going to keep you alive."

Chapter 6

Risk

Still feeling rather dazed from Mr. Walters' class, I push through the doors to the parking lot with my eyes on the pavement. Pain behind my eyes is growing into a massive headache by the second. I never did get a chance to talk to Jen today. Telling myself that it's just because we don't have any classes together, and because I was here early this morning and I'm leaving ridiculously late, are the only reasons we didn't find each other today, only does so much to cheer me up. It isn't because she's avoiding me.

Intent on convincing myself that Jen is still my friend, I don't notice the door in front of me swinging open until it is inches away from my face. With no time to move out of the way I throw my hands up in an effort to protect myself and take the full force of the door on my palms. Pain radiates through my wrists and up my arms in a flash.

"Ow! Crap, that hurt." Since I already dropped the books I was carrying, I'm free to shake my hands and try to get rid of the awful tingling sensation. The door swings back away from me to reveal the culprit.

"Did I hit you?" he asks, sounding only vaguely concerned. His dark grey eyes look over at me from under his raggedy hair.

I stare at him with a scowl. "Milo, right?"

He nods.

"Yeah, you did hit me. Thanks. Like my day hasn't been crappy enough already."

Shrugging nonchalantly, he says, "Sorry. I'm usually the only one still here this late."

It is pretty late. "What _are_ you doing here?" I ask.

"Detention."

I have to suppress an elaborate eye roll. It isn't easy. Of course he was in detention. He certainly wasn't still here working on some extra credit or anything. "What for?"

"Didn't turn in a homework assignment to Ms. Hernandez last week. She gets pretty pissed when that happens. But she gets pissed off by just about everything I do." Milo looks _very_ concerned about that fact. "She'll get over it eventually."

"How long did she give you?" Not that I particularly care for Milo's sake—he obviously deserves it—but just so I know how peevish Ms. Hernandez is for future reference.

"This time?" Milo asks. "A week, or until I turn my homework in, whichever comes first."

"Then why don't you just turn your homework in?" I ask drily.

He looks at me like I am an idiot. "I've already spent three of my five days in detention. Turning my homework in now would be pointless. I would have wasted the last three days trying to make a point."

"And what point is that? You're lazy?" I ask.

Milo stoops down and scoops my forgotten books up off the floor and holds them out to me. "Not lazy, exactly, just incapable of turning in homework assignments."

I reach out for my books and notice that the right cuff of his frayed sweatshirt has pulled up enough to bare his wrist. The sight of a tiny string of diktats isn't all that remarkable given that we're in a talent training class together, but they catch my eye anyway. There is something wrong with them. Before I can really get a good look at the diktats Milo notices my gaze and practically drops the books into my arms. I catch them purely on reflex and hug them against my chest.

"So, is there actually a difference between being lazy and incapable of doing your homework? 'Cause I'd probably just lump them together," I say, trying to alleviate the awkwardness.

"Of course there is."

I wait for him to explain, but he doesn't. Instead he shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking toward the parking lot. It isn't the harried pace of someone trying to get away. I get the distinct impression that his ambling walk is an unspoken invitation for me to catch up with him. And for some reason beyond being desperate to have someone to talk to again, I accept. Given how slow he's walking it only takes me a couple of steps to catch up and fall in beside him.

"So," Milo says, telling me I was right about him waiting for me, "what made your day so awful? Was it just the typical 'Everybody knows I'm the Destroyer' stuff, or something worse, like a broken nail or some other girl drama?"

I can't even respond for a moment. Milo trying to have a normal conversation with me is weird enough. His talking about my being the Destroyer like it's no big deal is just bizarre. I was sure back in Perception class that he had no idea who I was.

"You know about that?" I ask. Everyone else in the school did, though I haven't seen much hint of Howe's promise to make everyone hate me yet so I assume it was either Lance or Principal Andrews giving the school a heads up.

Without looking over at me, Milo fills me in. "I have first hour with Lance. He pretty much announced it to the whole room. It's probably a safe bet to say everyone knows by now."

"Of course he did," I growl. "I'd slap him if I didn't think he'd try to kill me again." My eyes snap over to Milo. I didn't mean to actually say that out loud. Things are bad enough without everyone knowing my own boyfriend—uh, ex-boyfriend—tried to kill me. Milo just keeps sauntering along without pause.

"No offense, but I don't know what you ever saw in that guy. I thought he was a prick the first time I met him." He didn't move his gaze from the ground, but I swear I saw him smirk a little as he trashed Lance.

Not that it's any big surprise that a guy like Milo would detest a guy like Lance, but I appreciate the sentiment. "I guess I'm not as good a judge of character as you are. It took his knife barely missing my throat to clue me in," I say. The piddling joke actually makes me feel a little better. "Feel free to warn me next time, okay?"

Milo actually glances over at me. "Sure thing."

Silence fills the space between us for a few seconds as we reach the first line of empty parking spaces. Without warning, Milo stops. Not wanting to abandon the only person still talking to me, I pause as well and look back at him.

"Did he really try to kill you?"

My long brown hair is hanging down around my face, covering my neck. Rather than answering, I pull my hair back and tilt my head to the side so the inch long proof of Lance's attack can be seen plainly. "And right after that a Guardian came in and almost finished the job," I say.

Whatever I expected Milo to say, I would have been wrong.

"Does that kind of thing happen to you often?" he asks.

The slight turning up of one of the corners of his mouth is the only indication that he's joking. Again, my stress seems to lighten by the smallest degree.

"Well, if you count all the times I've almost died purely by accident or stupidity, or getting in trouble with Guardians, then yeah, it happens pretty regularly. But if we're just talking about homicidal boyfriends and Guardians, that was a new one even for me. Although I suppose it probably won't be the last." Despite the truth of that, I find myself smiling, too.

Milo's smile widens slightly. "Maybe you should take to wearing one of those dog collars with the spikes to fend off a repeat of that. It's a little Goth, but with your dark hair and pale skin, I think you could probably pull it off."

"I'll have to think about that one," I say with a laugh.

"What did you mean about getting in trouble with the Guardians?" Milo asks.

I shrug. "Sneaking out at night, mostly. If my mom bothered to check on me and found me gone, she'd call them in to haul me back."

"You said mostly. What's the rest of the reason?"

"Not going with them willingly when they found me."

Milo nods in understanding, and maybe even with a hint of approval.

We reach a dark blue Toyota Corolla and Milo pauses. It must be his car. He doesn't move to get in it right away, but I feel like my brief moment of normalcy is quickly drawing to an end. Milo is strange and a little grimy, but he's still talking to me. And whether that makes him as crazy as Mr. Walters, or just weird, it's hard to walk away from him. But I have to. I raise my hand to give him a casual wave before I say goodbye, but a sudden change in his expression stops me.

"You know how I said everybody knows about you by now?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say slowly.

He looks past me. "Well, I was wrong. Only everyone at school knows. But five minutes from now the entire world is going to know."

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

Milo's gaze slides past me. My stomach lurches and plummets to my shoelaces. I don't want to turn around, but my body moves without my consent. Dozens of panel vans are tearing into the parking lot behind us. Big, bold letters of television and radio stations are plastered on their sides. These aren't just the local flunkie reporters, either. CNN, Fox News, CNBC, CBS News, and every other major news outlet are here. For me.

This is the first step in Howe's plan to make the entire world hate me.

I turn back to Milo in a panic but he only shrugs and leans against the back of the trunk. "Word was going to get out eventually, I guess. That was faster than I thought."

"What do I do?" I ask.

"I don't know. Talk to them?"

I grunt my disapproval.

"Then don't talk to them. They'll probably follow you home. Stake out your house, maybe. Hound you until you do talk to them. You can run, but I bet they find you pretty quickly. Most reporters are either Concealers or Visionaries. That's why they're so good."

I have a quick flash of wonder about whether Jen will have a talent for Vision or Concealment before the rolling sound of a wave of reporters barreling toward me makes me want to cry. Milo is right, unfortunately. They're not going to go away even if I run. This day just keeps getting better and better. Milo settles himself on the hood of his Corolla so his face is conspicuously turned away from the cameras and crosses his arms over his chest.

He may be safe from the viewers, but not from me. I can still see at least half of his expression. He takes on a look of mild interest in what is about to happen, but I get the impression he's keeping a close eye on me and the reporters. It's an odd sensation coming from him, but I'll take whatever I can get at this point. Frowning intently, I turn away from him and face the onslaught. The bubbling thrill of a chase reaching its happy, or unhappy, end if you're me, is stretched tightly across every one of their faces.

They start calling my name, yelling it as if I weren't ten feet away from them and perfectly capable of hearing their calls. They slide to a scrambled stop inches away from my face.

"Libitina Sparks! Libitina, is it true that you're the Destroyer?"

"Libitina! Can we see your diktats?"

"Was there an attempt on your life last night? Have there been any more attempts on your life? Rumors are flying that Vice President Lazaro does not support President Howe's decision to let you live. Is that true? Has he made any threats against you?"

"What? Who did you hear that from?" There's no way Howe let that part slip. Lazaro must be running his own campaign against me. Fabulous.

"Do you have any plans as of yet?"

That last one makes me flinch. "Plans?" I ask. The gaggle of reporters falls silent. "Plans for what?"

"For the destruction of our society," one of the reporters says frankly. His wind tossed hair looks out of place among the rest of the polished members of the press staring at me. A quick glance down at his microphone clues me in. The blocky letters of the local news station out in Grants, where my cousins live, tags him as newbie trying to work his way up.

"I'm not going to destroy anything," I say to him.

"That's not what your classmate Lance Parsons said, or your own mother, for that matter. They both spoke to me on the phone and confirmed President Howe's announcement that last night you were named Cassia, the Destroyer, by the Inquisitor who was training your father to take his place before his untimely death."

Wow. He's quick for an underling. How on earth did he already get interviews with my mom and Lance? The other reporters glance at him with the same question. His handsome face turns smug under their gaze. My own hardens to steel.

"I don't care what any of them say, I'm not going to hurt anyone." A dozen more questions spring up and I lose it. "This is all just a big mistake," I shout over the din. "I'm not going to harm anyone or anything. I'm just a teenage girl, for crying out loud! I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to, which I don't. I'm just a kid. Now, leave me alone, please."

A striking brunette pushes her way to the front of the pack and thrusts her microphone in my face. "Are you calling Inquisitor Moore a liar? Are you saying he somehow lied during an Inquest, something we all know is physically impossible? Are you saying you do not have the diktats proclaiming who you really are?"

"No. No, I'm not calling Inquisitor Moore a liar. He's a good person. He's honest," I argue. Even if he could have lied he wouldn't have.

"Then what _are_ you saying, Libitina?" she asks.

"I'm just saying this is all a big misunderstanding. I'm not the Destroyer. I'm not going to hurt people. I want to be an artist." I'm pleading for them to understand, but none of them are really listening to what I say. They're just trying to keep me talking as long as possible to get some good sound bites for the evening news.

"Show us your diktats," a blonde man yells from the middle of the crowd. "If you want us to believe you aren't the Destroyer, show us you're not!"

"Yeah, prove it to us," shouts another man.

Hands start grasping for me, the fear I would have expected from them overpowered by competition to get the best story. Someone grabs hold of my wrist and I slap it away and yank my hand back. "Stop it! Leave me alone!"

They press closer.

"Get away from me!"

"Just show us your wrist," the same blonde man says.

I snap my left hand behind my back. These people are worse than the football players. I try to make myself look as threatening as possible. He freezes for a second, probably reminding himself of who I am, then greed proves the winner and he lunges for me. My right hand balls into a fist and rushes forward to meet him. The crack of knuckles on perfect cheekbone echoes in the sudden silence. Even though I was careful to hold back any talent-born power from my punch, Pretty Boy Reporter has likely never been hit before and drops like a wet noodle. The throbbing in my hand is oddly exhilarating.

"I thought you weren't going to hurt anyone," a brave but quietly muttering voice from somewhere in the middle of the pack says.

The liar I just made of myself stings more than I would have expected. Is this what Howe meant? Even if it is, I can't back down from these leeches. "Keep your hands off me and I won't," I say as calmly as possible.

The entire group takes a collective, unconscious step back.

"I don't have anything to say to any of you. Now leave me alone."

I turn away but a redheaded woman steps forward and I pause. She looks straight at me, and asks, "Do you really just expect people to go about their business like their own murderer isn't walking around free as a bird? Nobody is going to stand for that, Libitina. People are already calling for you to be locked up."

"They can't do that," I say in a panic. "I've only been named to the Destroyer class. I'm not anything until I turn eighteen. You can't touch me until then."

The redhead cocks her head to the side as she considers that. "So when you do turn eighteen..."

"Lock me up, kill me, do whatever you want," I say, shocking everyone, even Milo, "if...if you still think I'm going to hurt anyone."

"If?" she asks. "What makes you think anyone will be willing to take that risk?"

Forcing every bit of confidence and strength into my voice that I can manage, I say, "Because by the time I turn eighteen, I'll have proved to everyone that I'm not the Destroyer."

Chapter 7

Hero

I watch the horde of retreating news vans in relief. I don't think they ever would have left if Principal Andrews hadn't come out and banished them from the premises. She stormed back to her office right after looking angrier at me than them. My knees are shaking, and all I want to do is flop down on the pavement and bang my head against it. I might have if Milo hadn't been staring at me. Despite the fact that he sat in that same irritating, slouchy position during the entire attack with an expression of detached curiosity, I stagger over to his car and plop down next to him. Jen would have hugged me. Lance would have kissed me and rubbed my shoulders until he felt the tension dissolve. Milo just sits there.

"Thanks for the help," I say, my annoyance blatantly obvious.

"I thought you did great. Especially when you clocked that guy in the mouth. You can bet that bit makes it on the evening news," Milo says casually.

A frustrated groan slips through my teeth. I was so focused on keeping them off me and trying to make them believe I wasn't some mutant, terrorist freak hell-bent of annihilating the world that I had barely even thought about how everything was being taped before I hit that guy. "I can't believe I did that," I moan.

"It's not like it's going to make people have a worse opinion of you," Milo says.

"How so?"

"Because they already hate you. What's stronger than hate?" he says.

My head feels like it's going to explode. I hope the fragments of my skull bash right into Milo's face when it does. "You suck at cheering people up, do you know that?"

"That's only because I wasn't trying to cheer you up."

I sigh and laugh weakly. "Well, then let me say, you're fantastic at making people feel even worse than they already did."

"Yeah, well, it's just one more thing to love about me, I guess," he says, "but I wasn't trying to make you feel worse, either."

"Too bad, because it worked." With the adrenaline beginning to wear off, my hands start shaking. I stuff them under my legs to hide them.

"I was merely stating the obvious. People are going to hate you when they find out who you are no matter what you say. Words don't matter when it comes to people protecting their lives or their family's lives," he says seriously. Very seriously.

"So what do you want me to do? Admit I'm going to kill everyone?" I demand.

"Are you?" He asks it with all the concern of a bug for the blade of grass it's crawling over.

My eyes narrow at him. "No."

"Then you probably shouldn't admit you are," he says.

"Has anyone ever told you how incredibly irritating you are?" I ask.

"Often. But my point is, if you want people to believe you aren't going to hurt them you have show them you aren't. Those vans are going to be back. They'll follow everything you do for the next two years. Do whatever you have to in order to make sure the world knows who you really are. And by that I don't mean the Destroyer, I mean Libby Sparks."

The length of his speech is surprising enough, but the honest, thoughtful tenor of his words is even more shocking. Plus, he's looking right at me for once, rather that peering at me from behind his mop of wild hair. His eyes aren't red from smoking too much pot. He isn't covered in acne or tattoos or piercings like I thought he might be at first. He's actually kind of...attractive. Milo notices me watching him and looks at his feet.

"Or you can just keep punching people if you want," Milo says. "That's cool too. You've actually got a pretty mean right hook."

Stress, or maybe embarrassment at being caught staring at him, makes me burst into a fit of little girl giggles. I can't make myself stop, either. Tears are rolling down my cheeks before I finally get control of myself again. Milo tilts his head to the side enough to see me and smiles. It's a nice smile. But it disappears quickly.

"Sorry," I say as I wipe away the last of my hysteria-induced tears. "It's been a rough day. I'm not usually so unstable."

"That's too bad. You're pretty interesting when you're unstable," Milo says.

I laugh again, and say, "Thanks."

Neither of us says anything for a few moments. The quiet of the empty parking lot is comforting in its own way. My eyes start to drift closed and I have the fleeting thought that I should get up and find my car. I'm just so tired.

"Hey," Milo says, waking me back up, "do you need a ride home?"

"No, I'm fine. I've got my car here somewhere." I look out at the sprawling asphalt in confusion. There's nothing there. Milo's car is the only one left in the lot.

"Um, did you maybe park in the south lot today?" he asks.

I glance around one more time just to be sure I'm not missing something, "No," I say, "I parked right over there, under the third light post. I always park under a light post."

"Why?"

"Because I forget where I park a lot," I say absently. Milo snorts. "I know I parked in the north parking lot," I argue. "It has to be here somewhere. It didn't just disappear."

"Maybe it got towed."

The keys in my hand start trembling as Milo's comment reminds me of how my cell phone suddenly stopped working halfway through the day. She wouldn't need to tow my car. She has the spare set of keys. My phone dying should have prepared me, I guess, but I'm still shocked.

"I can't believe she did it," I say. "She actually took my car."

"Who took your car?" Milo asks.

I shake my head as my weariness deepens. "My mom."

"Your mom stole your car? Why would she do that?"

"Because I didn't die last night like she thought I should have." Even emotionally challenged Milo looks a little taken aback by that. But whatever he's thinking, he doesn't give it voice.

"Is that offer for a ride home still on the table?" I ask.

"Sure. Hop in," he says. "It's no Audi, but it's clean, mostly."

Mostly. Ha. If it's anything like his general appearance, mostly might be the best I can hope for. "It can be a pigsty for all I care at this point. As long as it runs and can get me away from this school it will feel like Cinderella's pumpkin carriage to me."

"Climb in and tell me where to go then, princess."

I hold my breath and halfway close my eyes before opening the door and dropping into the passenger's seat. One eye at a time, I open my eyes and glance around. Incredibly, the only trash I see is a few burger wrappers and an empty plastic soda bottle in the door. Releasing my breath slowly, I take another one in and am greeted by the scent of fabric freshener. Who would have thought? Clean and fresh paired with Milo. Something about books and covers pops into my mind and scatters immediately as Milo slides into the driver's seat.

"It's nice," I say.

He shrugs and starts the car. I point south and we're driving out of the parking lot before he responds. "It's alright."

My skin ripples with goose bumps like it usually does when I catch a glimpse of someone else's emotions. Skepticism. He doesn't think I really like it. He assumes I'm being polite, but not honest. Irrational as it is, it bothers me that Milo thinks I would lie to him.

"I tried to convince my mom to buy me a Ford Bronco. A red, nineteen-ninety Ford Bronco. It had some rust on the undercarriage, but other than that it was perfect. Plus it had a winch on the front," I say with a wistful smile. "I could have climbed some monster cliffs with that Bronco."

Approval washes over me.

"I didn't know you like rock crawling," Milo says.

"I love it, but I don't get to go very often. Or at least I didn't used to." My mom disowning me might change that significantly.

Milo nods. "I take my Jeep out most weekends. It's a total piece, but that just means I can be rough with it and it won't matter. There's more scratches than paint on the thing."

"That's why I wanted the Bronco, so if I dinged it up a bit no one would be able to notice," I say. "Oh, get on I-40 and go until you reach the exit for Rio Grande."

"Downtown?" Milo asks. "I would have pegged you for a Sandia Heights girl. I don't think Rio Grande is even in our school boundaries."

"It's not. And you would have been right about Sandia Heights, if we'd met yesterday. My mom kicked me out after my Inquest."

"Huh, you must have quite the mom."

"You have no idea," I say as I close my eyes.

"And your dad went along with it?"

My whole body tenses instinctively. Releasing my muscles one by one eases the hurt from my mind. "My dad's dead."

Uncomfortable silence fills the car. I shut myself down to any external influences. I don't want to feel Milo's pity, or whatever he might feel after that announcement. Quiet and still, it only takes me a few seconds to drop into a coma-like sleep. Dreams of my dad and how different the past two days might have gone if he were still alive plague me relentlessly. When Milo shakes my shoulder to wake me up I blink at the afternoon light in relief.

"Forget Cinderella, you're more like Sleeping Beauty. I've been shaking you for a good two minutes," Milo says.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"We're coming up on Rio Grande. I don't know where to go after that."

"Oh, right." I rub my eyes, probably smearing mascara, and try to dredge up the rest of the directions to the hotel. "Um, take two lefts and then a right."

Milo nods and signals a left turn after we leave the interstate. I'm still trying to wake up when he makes the last turn, but I'm at least awake enough to point to where I need to go. "It's right there on the left. I'm all the way at the end."

The car stops and Milo throws it into park. He turns to me with another flash of seriousness that seems wholly out of place on him. "You live here? At a motel? That doesn't seem like a very good idea, Libby. It could be dangerous."

"It's fine," I argue.

"Libby," he says, sounding very much like my dad used to when he was trying to talk me out of something foolish, "this isn't the best part of town. Maybe you should stay somewhere else."

My smile comes out more as a sneer. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

He opens his mouth to say something else, but I cut him off quickly.

"And just in case you're having a sudden urge to play my knight in shining armor, not that that seems very likely, don't bother offering me a place to stay. I barely know you, Milo. Not even my own best friend could swing it with her parents. And I've known them my whole life. Nobody wants me near them anymore."

Milo laughs, a mirthless, grating sound. "Believe me, I wasn't going to suggest you crash at my place. My parents barely let me live there. There's no chance they'd take in a stray out of the kindness of their hearts." His grip tightens on the steering wheel to the point of turning his knuckles an angry white. "What I was going to suggest was that you choose a different motel."

"No thanks," I say quickly. "I like it here just fine. Nobody knows me, nobody bothers me, and it's free. Besides, why do you even care? You've known me for all of a couple hours."

Concern vanishes and Milo goes back to his normal, barely conscious state of being. "I don't know," he mutters, "I just do, okay? Maybe I don't want to see your dead body on the news and feel responsible for leaving you here."

Some hero, he just doesn't want to be plagued by guilt if I die. How can he go from strikingly genuine to an irritating slug so quickly, and so often? All I want to do is throw myself on my bed and scream. "Well, let me soothe your conscience right now," I say. "I hold you in no way responsible for my safety, Milo. If I get murdered in my sleep, feel free to gloat and tell everyone that you told me so."

I grab my bag and push the car door open. The walk to my door barely takes four steps, but Milo's own door slams before I can get my key out and unlock the door. I'm so exhausted and irritated that I fumble the key twice and completely fail to unlock the door before Milo yanks them out of my hand and shoves them into the lock. He pushes the door open and drops the keys back in my frozen fingers. Despite having closed myself off from him earlier, I can feel his anger and concern roiling all around him.

"Doesn't it bother you at all?" I ask. "Who I am, I mean?"

His stance softens, very slightly. The hard set of his shoulders fills out his tired sweatshirt for the first time all day. The baggy, worn quality of his jeans doesn't match the firm stance of his feet. "No, it doesn't," he says simply.

"Why not?"

His grimace deepens, and I feel a sharp spike of blazing pain and anger. "Because maybe I wouldn't mind if you did destroy everything." And then he gets back in his car and drives away.

Chapter 8

Lurking

Banging on my door snaps me up from my bed in a jerking, terrifying jolt. Somebody found out, and Jen's uncle is going to kick me out. I panic. I've been here less than twenty-four hours, but I don't want to leave. I like it here for reasons I can't even comprehend in my hazy state. I roll over and blink at the glowing green numbers of the alarm clock. Six o'clock. Morning or evening? The much too bright light spilling around the drawn curtains clue me in. Too bright to be morning. I must have fallen asleep watching TV. The banging comes again. I groan and bury my face in the pillow. Part of me considers not opening the door, but my body isn't cooperating and I find myself pulling the door open before I can remember why I shouldn't. It's not Jen's uncle.

"Milo?" I ask. "What are you doing here?"

Milo. He's standing at my door. My numb brain sends a shot of relief through me, eliciting a smile. Which I instantly suppress. And then I wake up and consider the fact that I've been sleeping and probably look horrible. My hands fly across my clothes and hair, trying to de-wrinkle my general appearance. Milo just watches me with one eyebrow cocked.

"What are you doing here?" I repeat.

"You aren't actually a vegetarian, are you?" he asks.

Am I still asleep? "What?"

"Are you a vegetarian?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has to do with the fact that I've been in hotels like this enough times to know that they don't have kitchens or room service," Milo snaps.

My arms cross my chest protectively. "What do you mean you've been in hotels like this a lot? Why do you spend time in seedy motels? Whatever you're thinking..."

Milo's expression goes completely blank, even less emotion than I usually see him display. His hands come out from behind his back and he shoves a paper bag at me. "Do you want your burger, or not?"

"Burger?" Then the tantalizing scent of greasy French fries and salty hamburger patties hit me. My stomach growls in elation. I snatch the bag from his grip eagerly. "Absolutely! I'm starving. I've barely eaten all day. I didn't have any food here for breakfast and the only thing I could grab from the lunch lady was an apple because my mom emptied my lunch account. You have no idea how happy this makes me, Milo."

Milo shrugs, but I swear I can see the hint of a smile on his lips. "Well, stop talking about eating and actually do it, then."

Grinning so much over a burger seems mildly stupid to me, but I don't care. I practically jump onto the bed and start dragging my meal out of the bag. Milo's awkward shuffling draws my attention. He's still standing by the door with his own takeout bag in his hand.

"Oh, sorry, Milo, come on in."

He hesitates for a half second before stepping over the threshold and gently pushing the door closed. My heart leaps in fear at the sight of the door closing. In that brief moment, images speed through my mind of what a guy Milo's size could do to me with no one around to stop him. Then reality nudges its way back into my mind. Despite my performance in the gym today, it's pretty unlikely Milo could ever actually get his hands on me, and even if he did, my own Strength could beat him off in a heartbeat. Plus, his snarly, mildly curious interest in me is leaps and bounds away from physical attraction. Or at least it seems to be. You can never really tell with guys. But the veritable wave of anxiety rolling off him convinces me the most that I am in little danger. He is more nervous than I am. So much for not caring who I am.

Milo scans the room before he seems to realize there is nowhere for him to sit except the bed. He plops down on the edge and glances over at me. I offer him a quick smile to let him know he's fine sitting there, and take an enormous bite out of my burger. It is heavenly. Months spent trying to convince the people closest to me that I was going to be a Naturalist forced me to give up processed food in all its forms. It was almost worse than just telling everyone the truth. I sigh in peaceful pleasure, a feeling I haven't felt in a very long time. It's kind of weird that a burger would be the thing to bring it back.

A quick shake of Milo's head distracts me from my bliss. I look over to see him watching me as he takes a sip from his soda. "What?" I demand, although the pleasure in my own voice steals most of the sting.

"Nothing, I've just never seen anyone so happy about a little hamburger. You're practically making out with it."

"Shut up. I'm hungry, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Just let me know if you need a moment alone with your dinner. I'd be happy to step outside," Milo says.

"Shut up, you jerk," I laugh. If he's going to tease me... "You never answered my question, you know."

He quirks an eyebrow at me, and asks, "What question?"

"About the hotels."

He shrugs again. "It's not what you think. I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, I bet. You must bring girls to places like this all the time if you're so familiar with them."

Milo ducks his head but I can see the way his jaw tightens. He looks angry at my suggestion, which is startling, but the idea of him having girls around him actually doesn't feel that alien to me. His less than stellar grooming habits might make people think he was the last person in the world to entice a woman. It was certainly my first impression, but there is something else lurking beneath his surface. Something that could definitely pull people to him if he put forth the effort. I can feel it pulsing under the anger. Strong and solid, it's impossible to identify with all the distraction. Something is there, though.

Suddenly, I don't want to tease him anymore.

"I'm just kidding, Milo," I say seriously. "Why do you come to motels? I don't believe it's for girls."

"Why not? You don't think I can get girls?" He's gone back to his usual lazy, unconcerned way of talking, but I can hear the slight edge of irritation still lingering in his voice even without Perception.

"No," I say, "it's not that. You just don't seem like that kind of guy. You must have another reason for hanging out in places like this."

He harrumphs in answer. Not very enlightening. But maybe I'm prying too much into his personal life for having only met him this afternoon. Giving him some space, I quietly watch him gather up all our food wrappers and empty cups. He stuffs everything back into one bag and drops it into the trashcan next to the bed. At least he cleans up after himself. That's one skill Lance never seemed to learn.

Milo settles back onto the bed and breaks the silence. "Sometimes, when living with my parents gets too...unbearable and I need a break from them, I crash in some out of the way motel for a few days until I cool off. Until they cool off. I escape at least every two or three weeks."

"And your parents don't care that you leave? Don't they try to find you?" I ask.

He shrugs. "No. They're as happy as I am to see me go."

"I could lie and say I can't believe they'd treat you that way," I say, "but given my current situation, I can totally believe it. Parents aren't all they're cracked up to be, are they?"

"Not in my experience."

Milo folds a pillow in half behind him and leans back on it. I feel like we're simply hanging out in his room, shooting our mouths off about our parents while they putter around in another part of the house. It almost feels normal.

"Your dad must have been okay, though," Milo says. "At least you had one good parent."

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know, just the way you reacted when I asked you about him earlier. You said he was dead, and nothing else. I guess I figured you either hated his guts, or you still miss him." Milo turns to glance at me. "Maybe it's just because I'm generally a pretty optimistic guy, but I chose to go with you missed him rather you hated him. Kids should at least get one parent who cares about them."

"Optimistic, huh? I never would have guessed," I say.

The corner of his mouth turns up. "If I weren't optimistic, and believed I'd get out of this hell-hole one day, I would have gone nuts a while ago."

"Good point."

"So which is it?" Milo asks. "Was he a good dad, or not?"

My chest constricts like it always does when I think about my dad. I force it down to a dull ache and make myself answer. "He was the best. I miss him a lot."

"When did he die?"

I look over at Milo and crinkle my nose. "You're not from Albuquerque originally, are you?"

He shakes his head. "Moved here in May from Ohio. Why?"

"Because if you grew up here you wouldn't have to ask about my dad. He was training to be our next Inquisitor. He died when I was eleven. On my birthday, actually."

Letting out a low breath, Milo shakes his head. "Sorry, that sucks. How'd he die?"

"Nobody knows." Nobody but me. "It was very sudden. His heart stopped, and he was gone."

"Sorry," Milo says.

I shake myself visibly, willing the dark cloud settling over me to disperse. "It's okay."

For a moment Milo closes his eyes and I'm afraid he's going to fall asleep on my bed. He opens them again a few seconds later and turns to look at me, his eyes earnest. "Do you really think your Inquest was a mistake like you told the reporters?"

More than anything I hope the people who heard me say that, reporters and viewers alike, believe me. Their belief might be the only thing that keeps me alive for the next two years. But I don't believe it. I know better. I recognized, early in life, that I had the seven talents that would mark me. There was no mistaking it. There's no way I can delude myself into believing what I said to them.

Milo's question makes it pretty obvious that he doesn't really believe it either, and I find myself rather reluctant to lie to him. He knew who I was before we even met. He didn't glare or ignore me. Whatever his reasons are, he seems to accept who I am. I have no idea what his motivations behind his attitude are, which scares me just a little, but I need that acceptance right now. I need one person in this world to look at me like I'm not a monster.

Taking a deep breath, I say, "No. My Inquest wasn't a mistake."

"But you're planning on making everybody think it was," Milo says.

"Pretty much."

"You think it will work?"

Now it's my turn to shrug. "Probably not, but I don't have a lot of options right now."

"No, I guess not," he says.

"President Howe told me to lay low or he'd kill me. That's exactly what I plan on doing."

"President Howe?"

"Yeah, he showed up at the Inquisitor's house after my Inquest and laid out his whole plan." When Milo raises a questioning eyebrow, I relive the whole conversation, complete with Lazaro's threat.

"So you're just going to hang out until your eighteenth birthday when Howe is going to kill you?"

"No. I'm _hopefully_ going to figure out a plan before then."

"How's that coming so far?" he asks.

"Pretty sucky."

Shaking his head, Milo lets the topic die away. He seems content to sit with his thoughts now. I quickly get antsy. I'm not sure whether it's more of an awkward silence kind of discomfort or my worrying about being alone with Milo, but I feel strange just sitting here with him all the same.

"Do you want to watch something?" I ask. Milo sits up, surprised, and I backpedal immediately. "Unless you needed to go home. You, uh, don't have to babysit me, or anything."

Milo's expression morphs into a snarky smile, and he says, "Somehow, I doubt you need anyone to babysit you, Cassia the Destroyer. You'd probably be saving my butt if anything did happen."

I can't explain why, but Milo calling me Cassia doesn't make my skin crawl like it has every other time someone has called me that today. I actually kind of like it. Minus the "Destroyer" part, at least.

Smiling, I say, "Yeah, you wouldn't be saying that if you saw me in the gym today. I'm pretty sure the Guardians-in-training all thought I was mentally handicapped the way I kept tripping and bumping into things."

"As long as you can throw punches like you did this afternoon, I don't think it will matter too much." Having said that, Milo grabs the remote control off the nightstand and starts flipping through channels. He makes a quick tour of the twenty-something channels and holds the remote out to me. The motion pulls his sleeve back, revealing his diktats again.

Without being too obvious about it, hopefully, I look down at his wrist as I reach for the remote. There are only three, the least amount a person can have. One talent, a common name, and named to the Mediator class. The wrongness I had glimpsed so quickly earlier today is plain, now. They aren't identical little vertical stripes laid out in a perfect row. The spaces between each diktat are fractionally different. The raised flesh is slightly uneven, as if they had bubbled up rather than appeared instantly. And the left one has a sharp divot that lashes out and nearly touches the diktat next to it. I wrap my fingers around the remote in an effort to keep myself from running them over his skin.

What happened to him?

Never before have I seen someone with diktats like his. They're always perfect, a reminder of how our society is meant to be. You can't even screw them up later. Whatever makes the diktats appear in the first place changes the skin around them, too. It's impenetrable. You can no more mar your diktats to lie about your talents, class, or name, than sprout wings and fly to the moon. But something screwed up Milo's diktats. And it had to have happened during the Inquest. Whatever happened, the Inquisitor who performed his Inquest caused it.

As I flip through the channels without really seeing them I can't shake the feeling that there is something dangerous lurking behind Milo's diktats.

Chapter 9

Jealousy

As promised, Milo is waiting for me outside my room at seven-thirty on the dot. I doubted his ability to get up early and show up on time when he made the promise last night, but I am pleasantly surprised to find out how wrong I was to question him. Today is already starting off a million times better than yesterday. I smile as I climb into his Corolla.

"Ready?" Milo asks groggily.

"Yep."

He jams the gear shift in reverse. The car jerks back and then out of the parking lot. His hair hides most of his face, and his sunglasses hide the rest. Milo's hunched shoulders and drooping head, plus his utter lack of conversational ability, make me smile.

"Not much of a morning person, huh?" Normally I'm not either. I rarely get through a night without terrible nightmares, which means little sleep and grumpy mornings. Nightmares still gave me an awful night's sleep, but actually having a ride to school this morning has put my usual unpleasantness on hold. I was sure I'd be calling a taxi after yesterday.

Milo merely grunts in response to my question.

"Well, thanks for picking me up."

"No problem," he growls.

A chuckle slips out before I can stop it. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

I smile even wider. He doesn't seem to notice. He does however speed up, ten, fifteen miles over the speed limit. He darts in and out of traffic so effortlessly that I doubt the likelihood of his one talent being Perception. He fits right in with the rest of the Guardians the way he's driving. The rest of the trip passes in silence, with me holding onto the door handle very tightly. We make very good time. We have a full twenty minutes before the bell is due to ring.

"Well," I say when we're safely stopped and my fingers are unclenched from the handle, "that was interesting. If you wanted to get away from me that badly you could have just said so."

Milo finally looks over at me. "What?"

"You were speeding like a maniac. Were you trying to get rid of me as soon as possible?"

"Oh. No, I just wanted you to have enough time," he says.

"For what?"

He unbuckles his belt and leans toward me. I almost start to say something, a mixture of fear and curiosity at what he might do springing up instantly, when he twists and reaches for a container I hadn't noticed, peeking out from under his backpack. He tugs it out and hands it to me.

"I brought you some breakfast. Wake me before the bell rings, okay?" Then, casual as you please, he lays his seat back and closes his eyes. Within seconds his chest is rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. Amazing.

I turn back to my container with an amused shake of my head and work on prying the lid off. The bagel, or buttered toast, I'm expecting isn't there. Lying in the blue plastic container are scrambled eggs, bacon, and a sliver of cantaloupe. The eggs and bacon are still hot, the melon protected from the heat by a couple of folded paper napkins. A plastic fork is wedged between the edge of the container and the melon. For several long seconds all I can do is gape at the food. The last time anyone made me breakfast was five years ago. The morning my dad died. My eyes still water every time I see blueberry pancakes.

My fingers are actually shaking when I pick up my fork and take a bite. It's positively silly that I should be getting so worked up over eggs, but I can't help it. The homemade breakfast warms me completely. As long as it takes me to finish relishing the treat, there are still ten minutes before the first bell when I'm done. I close the dish back up and set it in the back seat. Before I can settle into my seat to wait, my gaze lands on Milo.

His eyes dart around under his eyelids as he sleeps. I wonder what he's dreaming about. I wonder if it's me. Shaking my head, I push that thought out of my mind completely. Any dream about me would quickly turn into a nightmare. He's probably dreaming about getting to sleep in. Lying back in his seat, his hair has fallen away from his face. I can actually see his face clearly without his hair there to get in the way. Hidden behind his scraggly locks is a strong jaw line and defined cheekbones. They go perfectly with his aquiline nose and full, soft lips.

My thoughts freeze. His soft lips? Where on earth did that come from? And why am I still staring at his lips? Are they really soft? I bite the inside of my cheek, but it doesn't really help. I struggle to get my thoughts back in order. I don't need this right now. I have an entire planet's worth of people to convince I'm not going to kill them all. Milo doesn't seem to be one of those people, but I'm not totally sure that makes him any less dangerous. He would apparently be pleased as punch to see me shatter the world. I have enough problems already without letting my hormones cloud things for me. Distractions are the last thing I need. I have to stay focused or I'm going to end up very dead.

Still, I can't help noticing there is a stray hair lying across his cheek, the tip touching his upper lip. Telling myself that it probably tickles being there, I reach up to gently brush it away. My finger touches his skin and his lips briefly curl into a smile before settling back into a sleepy frown. My own mouth turns up in delight despite what I just told myself. Trailing my finger along his skin not only rids him of the bothersome strand of hair, but elicits a few more tiny smiles from his lips as well. I smother a laugh with my other hand, tempted to repeat the motion a few more times.

But when a car pulls into the space next to us I suddenly remember my job and glance at the clock. I flinch at the time, three minutes until the first bell. My fingers drift down to Milo's shoulder reluctantly. I shake him gently, and say his name barely louder than a whisper.

His arms fly out from his body as he springs up, one of them smacking me neatly on the side of the face. I fall back into my seat with a groan. "Ouch! Dang it, Milo, that hurt."

He blinks several times before his eye widen. "Oh, crap. Did I hit you, Libby? I'm sorry. My parents usually just yell at me from a distance. It's safer that way. I should have warned you, I guess."

"You think?"

With my eyes closed, and my senses a bit scrambled, I don't notice he has come closer to me until he presses his hand against the side of my face. My breath stutters under his touch. His pressing lightly on my cheek stings, but I'm only vaguely aware of it. I'm not really capable of noticing anything except for how close he is to me until he pulls his hand back, though not completely.

"It's all red. I'm really sorry, Libby. I didn't mean to smack you...again," he says. Concern and regret play together in his slate grey eyes. I can't make myself look away from them.

"It's okay," I manage to mutter.

He leans forward again, staring at my throbbing cheek. Tension bunches up his shoulders. "You might want to keep your hair down for a while until you're sure it won't bruise. I'm sorry, Libby. If a teacher sees that they're going to think someone hit you on purpose."

"Like they'll even care. It's fine. Don't worry about it," I say, making Milo frown. I sigh. "I'll keep my hair down if it makes you feel better, though."

"It will," he says. Evidently he doesn't trust me. His fingers slide behind my ear and free my hair to fall forward, pausing on my now covered cheek. I lean into his touch without thinking.

My skin prickles a split second before Milo pulls away from me. The sensation passes too quickly for me to get anything from it.

"I think the warning bell already rang. We'd better go," he says flatly. Something about his voice sounds off, rougher than usual. I shouldn't have let myself slip like that. It's just that Lance used to do the same thing. For a moment the sensation was too familiar not to get lost in it. I have to be smarter. Milo is my friend, the only one I have. I don't want to lose that now by scaring him off.

Stuffing away my emotions, I grab my backpack and follow Milo out of the car. We rush across the parking lot and push through the double doors a few seconds later. The hallway is packed with students rushing to get what they need out of their lockers and race to class before the final bell rings. Nobody even notices us. Thank goodness. For whatever reason, Milo follows me to my locker and plants himself next to me as I yank it open and start loading up my books. I'm done ten seconds later, shoving the stubborn door closed and spinning around to find myself face to face with Jen.

She looks like a deer caught in a car's headlights.

"Jen," I say in surprise. "There you are. I couldn't find you anywhere yesterday."

"L-Libby...I." Her eyes dart around nervously. "I'm sorry, Libby, but I'm late for class."

She drops her eyes, practically running away from me. Her panicked flight catches some of the other students' attention. As she disappears into her classroom, they all swivel back to me, staring, glaring at me like I have just done something terrible. I just tried to say hi to my friend. Someone I thought was my friend, anyway. What's so bad about that?

The familiar brush of Lance's emotions slices through me as he walks by. Seeing his expression is just as painful. I take a step back under the assault, bumping into Milo, who leans against a locker and simply watches with mild interest. He's not about to step in and save me, but it's clear he isn't going anywhere.

Something flashes in Lance's eyes. It's there and gone so fast I barely even notice it, but the seething flow of jealousy rippling out from him is telling enough. A very tiny part of me relishes the idea of him caring. The rest of me has a different response. Irrational fury boils under my skin. Jealousy? How dare he? He tried to kill me, for crying out loud! He doesn't get to be jealous anymore. Stupid, hateful jerk. Only the rapt attention of everyone still in the hallway keeps me from slapping Lance across the face.

The final bell rings, breaking Lance out of his frozen stance and carrying him down the hall to his class. Despite my anger at Lance, when he disappears my whole body sags with relief. I have to lean against the locker next to Milo to keep from dropping.

"You okay?" Milo asks.

"Yeah, never better," I say. I just wish my hands would stop shaking. Milo's hands are rock steady as he pushes me away from the lockers.

"Told you he was a prick," he says.

I don't laugh. After seeing Lance in class yesterday, I thought I could deal with him being around school, but that was more draining than I anticipated. It's hard to see such ferocity in the face of someone you've been friends with your whole life.

My silence sparks Milo to say, "Just ignore him. He can't do anything. Everything's going to be fine."

Inquisitor Moore said almost the same thing to me before he started my Inquest. I never believed him, and it turned out that he was dead wrong. The situation hasn't changed that much for me, but I believe Milo when he offers the same reassurance. Inquisitor Moore couldn't help me. There's no reason Milo, whose talents are practically nonexistent, can help me any more than Inquisitor Moore could. Something deeper than superficial knowledge convinces me that he can. Somehow, Milo will make everything okay. Somehow.

"Thanks, Milo."

"I didn't do anything," he says.

I smile up at him. In a strict sense, he's totally right, but in more general terms he isn't. "Yes, you did. And thanks for breakfast, too."

Some kind of eagerness glints in his eyes despite his bored expression. "No problem. We ought to get to class, though." He eyes the door Lance went through, and I swear he looks excited to follow him in.

"Milo?" I ask, my voice begging him to stay out of trouble. He may not be willing to help me out much, but he's already made it clear just how little he likes Lance.

"Get to class, Libby. I'll see you later."

He gestures for me to get going and ambles over to the same door Lance went through. I sigh and walk away feeling certain my day is about to go from eggs-and-bacon happy to my-only-friend-and-my-ex-boyfriend-fighting-in-the-hallway kind of bad.

Chapter 10

Privilege

Nerves have me tapping my desk relentlessly as I watch the door for Milo. I haven't heard anything in the halls or gotten any unusually threatening looks yet. That's promising, I think. At the very least I feel confident one of them isn't dead. I'm more worried about Milo on that front, but traitorous concern for Lance has cropped up a few times as well. It flares in me again. I shoved it out of my head right away, telling myself he deserves whatever he gets, but it is ridiculously hard to pretend seeing him dead won't hurt me. I close my eyes and hope the general monotone atmosphere is a sign that no one got hurt. They're both fine. Someone would have at the least blamed me if something bad had happened.

That's a strangely hopeful thought. Or it might be if everyone didn't fall completely silent as soon as they saw me. Ms. Hernandez stands up from her desk, ready to launch into another discussion about Perception that I doubtlessly know more about than she does. Her thin lips part to shush everyone as Milo saunters through the door, hands in his pockets, head bobbing to whatever he's listening to on his iPod. Ms. Hernandez's lips compress to the point of disappearing completely, but she doesn't say anything to Milo.

Maybe his plan is working after all. That will make his day. Seeing him free of bruises or other injuries has already made mine. Milo slides into his seat, unzips his backpack, and pulls out a paper bag. Without a word, he hands me the bag and slouches down into his chair. His eyes close a second later.

"Milo," I hiss.

Nothing.

"Milo, what happened?"

His eyes stay stubbornly closed, but Ms. Hernandez's eyes snap to me like a predator about to attack. Her glare lingers only a second before she shivers and turns back to her lecture. She's obviously scared of me, but unfortunately, I'm pretty scared of her too. I shrink down in my seat and rest my feet on the book rack under the chair in front of me.

"Eat," Milo whispers.

"What?"

Opening one eye, he shakes his head and points at the bag on my desk. "Eat."

I open the bag and peer into it. It's not homemade this time, but a cold lunch from the cafeteria is better than nothing. Even though I put money back in my account this morning, I didn't have time to get anything. "Thanks," I whisper. But his eyes are already closed again.

As quiet as humanly possible, I take my lunch out of the bag and eat it while I listen to Ms. Hernandez recite the steps you should take to determine if someone is lying to you. She's jumped quite a ways from yesterday's painfully basic lesson plan. Discerning the truth of what someone is telling you requires first mastering the ability to feel another person's emotions. That can take years to learn by itself. After that, you have to be able to untangle the web of emotions that surround people constantly, even more so when they're trying to hide something. Then you need to be able to sort the individual strands of emotion to find what you're looking for.

It's a lengthy process for people who have spent years practicing, something none of the students in this classroom but me has had. I've done it so often I barely even have to think about it anymore. As long as I'm relatively calm and not too worked up to focus on my talents, I can feel lies on my skin like ants. Why she's giving a lesson on this makes very little sense, but I actually find it rather interesting. She brings up some techniques I have never tried, being largely self-taught. The hour speeds by quickly, and the ending bell breaks Ms. Hernandez off midsentence. Despite Milo's pretending to be asleep a few seconds earlier, he's the first one out of his seat.

"Oh no, you don't," I mutter as I shove my things back into my bag. I catch up to him right outside the classroom and grab his arm. He pulls me along for a few steps until we're clear of the doorway. The way he leans against a row of lockers and crosses his ankles doesn't fool me. "What happened this morning with Lance?"

"Nothing, really."

"Nothing, really, is a far cry from nothing. What happened, Milo?"

Milo sighs, but the smile creeping onto his face contradicts his irritation. "I may have said something along the lines of him being a pansy for trying to kill a girl."

I close my eyes and take a very deep breath.

"I also might have commented on how embarrassed he must have been to have run away like a little wuss after he did it."

"Milo..."

"And I may or may not have called him a pussy for dumping his girlfriend on her birthday."

"Milo, you didn't," I plead. "Lance is going to kill you. You know that, right?"

His irritating shrug makes me punch him in the shoulder. It lands with enough force to make him wince.

"Milo, leave Lance alone. Please." I'm begging him. I'm supposed to be some awesomely powerful person, and I'm begging. "Please?"

He slowly rolls the shoulder I punched then folds his arms across his chest. "Lance isn't going to do anything. Guardian Clement put him on probation after he found out what he almost did to you. If he screws up on or off school property, he's suspended for two weeks. It'll go on his permanent record and screw up his chances of becoming a full-fledged Guardian."

"So you were baiting him? Milo, that's not a very good idea," I say. "If Lance can find a way to do it without being caught, he'll come after you. And he'll win. No offense, but Perception isn't going to do a whole lot against Speed and Strength."

"Whether he finds some sneaky way to get to me or not, I seriously doubt he thinks I'll let it slide. I'd have no problem ratting out a creep like Lance," Milo argues.

My stomach twists uncomfortably, making my lunch want to lurch its way back up. "Have you ever seen him play football, Milo? He's ruthless. There's a possibility that if he comes after you, you won't be doing any talking afterward."

Mild surprise shows on Milo's face, but it doesn't last. "And why were you dating someone like that? I thought you had better taste."

Like dating Milo instead? Shocked by the wave of excitement brought on by that thought, I smother it instantly. I have no idea how strong Milo's Perception skills are. My voice sounds a little strangled when I respond. "That was before you so kindly enlightened me to his faults."

"Oh, right," he says.

"But that's hardly the point, Milo. You can't go around antagonizing Lance. He'll hurt you. Badly."

Dry as the desert sand, Milo says, "You know it's almost insulting how much you doubt my ability to handle myself in a fight."

"It's not about doubt," I say in exasperation, "it's about talents. Your one talent won't stand up against Lance's Speed and Strength."

I didn't mean to hurt him, but Milo flinches at my words and his fingers subtly tug down the hem of his sleeve to cover his mangled diktats. My frustration melts into concern immediately. Of course it would be a sore spot with him having only one talent. Why did I have to throw it in his face?

Trying to apologize, I press my hand against his chest, like I often did with Lance, and feel his heart speed up at the contact. His muscles tense. I consider pulling away, but the hurt I caused him is still rippling across my skin.

"Milo," I say hesitantly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." What do I say without bringing up his singular talent again? I can't even apologize without making things worse. I start over. "I'm sorry, Milo. I didn't mean it badly. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

The muscles under my hand release their tension. Relief floods over me, though I'm not sure whether it was all from me or from Milo as well.

"I'm not going to get hurt, Libby."

"How can you possibly think that?" I ask.

He smiles in a way that makes me want to smack him without even hearing what he's going to say. "Because, if Lance does come after me, I know you can take him for me. Why do you think I drive you around and bring you food? Some people might think I'm crazy for hanging out with you, but really, I'm just the only one smart enough to see the benefit of sticking close."

He's joking. I think. That couldn't really be the reason he popped up because that would be crazy. I'm way more trouble than I'm worth. Either way, he's a total jerk. I realize my hand is still on his chest...oops, and I take advantage of that fact, shoving him against the wall hard enough to make him grunt.

"You're only proving my point," he wheezes.

His eyes are laughing even if he can't take a deep enough breath to manage the actual sound. Matching his earlier smile, I shove him one more time before letting my hand fall away. My fingers drop more slowly than need be, but only out of curiosity, I tell myself. He wears shirts three sizes too big, but there is definitely some serious muscle under there. I force myself to focus and brighten my grin even more. Milo looks at me warily. As he should.

"If you expect me to play bodyguard for you..." I say, although after feeling his chest, maybe my doubt was a little premature. "I think I deserve a little more than rides to school and food from you."

"What did you have in mind?" Milo asks slowly.

My lips turn up wickedly. "Shopping."

That one word, more than the threat of Lance attacking him, makes Milo's eyes widen in agony. "Shopping? Seriously?"

"Deadly."

"That might be more accurate than you think. I'm severely allergic to malls, boutiques, anything resembling a clothing store at all," Milo groans.

I try to pout for him but my smiling gets in the way. "Poor baby. But that's my price. Take it or leave it."

For a moment I actually worry that he'll turn me down. But only for a very brief moment. "Fine," he says. His frown is only somewhat convincing.

I grin back at him, not feeling sorry for him in the least.

"How about tomorrow? We can spend all of Saturday shopping."

"Fine," he growls again.

Milo slips his hand onto my lower back, sending a shiver up my spine, and shoves me toward my next class. He's by my side in an instant, though. Despite our newly made agreement, I get the distinct impression from the way his eyes sweep the hall that he still sees himself as my protector rather than the other way around. It's so sweet, which is totally bizarre, but nice. Milo looks down at me and I redirect my thoughts before that line of thinking takes me somewhere I can't afford to go.

I bump my hip into him playfully, and say, "If you're a good boy this weekend, and provided you don't go into anaphylactic shock at the mere sight of a shopping mall, I'll let you help me pick out something even you will like."

That catches his interest.

"What?" he asks. The eager glint in his eyes is delicious. What I wouldn't give to know what he's thinking right now.

I smile up at him sweetly. "A new car."

His face breaks into a grin so big it very nearly reaches his ears. "Now that's one kind of shopping I don't mind at all."

I just shake my head. "You're such a guy."

"And what's so wrong with that?" Milo asks.

It's an innocent question. But it hits home, stopping me in my tracks. Milo takes several more steps before realizing he's left me behind. He turns back and frowns. Hugging myself, trembling, tears welling in my eyes, he must think I'm a lunatic. _I_ think I'm a lunatic. Crying in the middle of a slowly emptying hallway. What is wrong with me? I don't even realize Milo has moved until his hand touches my shoulder. I stare at his hand, watching as my tears splash down on his knuckles. This is so stupid.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Milo asks.

I shake my head. I feel like such an idiot.

"Libby..." His hand leaves my shoulder and touches my chin. I close my eyes and focus on the feel of his warm skin against mine.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Nothing...nothing. It's just me being unstable again," I say.

He pulls my chin up so I am looking at him. "That's entirely possible," he says, "but I don't think that's the problem right now. Why are you crying?"

My shoulders start shaking. "Lance likes cars, too," I say, sending the rest of my tears over the edge.

It's ridiculous to be crying over this. I hate him. I almost hope Lance does come after Milo just so I can have the chance to beat his superior smirk off his face. I could do it, too. But it still hurts to have lost him. Maybe Milo understands, or maybe he just knows what crying teenage girls need, but his arms slip around my shoulders, and he pulls me into a hug. My own arms unwrap from around my body and wind around him.

The bell for the next class rings, but Milo doesn't pull away. I guess that's one benefit of having a friend who couldn't care less about his grades. Minutes pass by slowly, but eventually the aching betrayal gives way to the fact that Milo is rubbing my back in slow circles. And the fact that being in his arms feels so warm and reassuring that I never want to leave. We can't stand in the hall forever, though. Missing his embrace before I even leave it, I push back from Milo and wipe away a few tears still lingering on my cheeks. And realize the rest of my tears have all soaked into Milo's shirt.

"Sorry about your shirt," I mumble through my embarrassment.

He looks down and just shrugs. "No big deal. It just gives me one more reason to bash Lance's face into the ground."

"I thought that was my job."

Milo considers that for a moment. "We might have to draw straws for the privilege."

Chapter 11

Betsy

The cashier practically throws my bags at me. Her vicious glare is nothing new. I've been getting those kinds of looks all day. At least she was willing to let me buy something. Others haven't been so accommodating. I actually got thrown out of a couple of stores today. Even Milo looked like he might be getting irritated at the treatment after the last one. Where is he anyway?

I glance around me at the storefronts nearest me and spot him across the food court at an electronics store. That's right. He was going to look for a DVD player so we could watch more than what the basic cable channels in my room have to offer. I would go over and join him, but I have to use the bathroom really bad. I settle for texting him that I'll be over in a few minutes and make a beeline for the nearest ladies' room.

Trying to make my way through a crowd of people inexplicably gathered right into front of the bathrooms with a dozen bags gripped in my hands is no treat. I finally shoulder a woman out of my way and break through. As soon as I do a meaty hand clamps down on my arm. I smother my first thought—to take a swing at him—and turn slowly toward him.

I've never seen this man before, but the telltale signs of a Guardian are hard to miss. Big, muscular, evil, drone-like capacity for following orders. The blade strapped to his forearm is a pretty good clue too. He pulls me away from the crowd to a corner I'm sure isn't within sight of any security cameras.

"Can I help you?" I ask through a forced smile.

"What's in the bags, Cassia?"

"Afraid I'm buying _Destroy the World_ supplies at the mall?" His mouth curls into a snarl at my sarcasm. I roll my eyes and hold my bags out to him. "You're welcome to check them. All but the _Victoria's Secret_ bag. I don't relish the idea of some creep fondling my bras."

He clearly doesn't appreciate my mocking. But he grabs my bags anyway. After searching them in record time he thrusts them back into my hands with a grunt.

"Disappointed?" I ask sweetly.

"You're not fooling us."

"I don't have to fool you. I just have to not destroy the world and you have to keep your grubby hands off me. Unless you're on Lazaro's side," I add.

"There are no sides in the Guardians," he snaps. "That's a lie."

He seriously can't be that delusional. "I was there. Howe said leave me alone. Lazaro said he'd kill me if he got the chance regardless of orders. There are definitely sides in the Guardians."

Can't hurt to sow a few seeds of division among these psychos. Chaos in their ranks can only help me. The Guardian slaps a hand against the back of my neck and yanks me right up next to his face. My bags scatter on the ground around me. Okay, maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"I don't care who kills you, so long as someone does. Howe or Lazaro...it will be equally thrilling to watch. For me. For you it will be the worst kind of pain you can imagine. I've seen both men take down rivals." He smiles, sending a chill through my body. "Early in Howe's crusade to the top, he faced a man from Japan. This man loved sushi, and Howe loves to make each death as personal and memorable as possible, so after beating this man in combat, he cut the flesh from his body one strip at a time. Turned him into his favorite meal. It took hours."

Watching every expression that flashes on my features, the Guardian relishes the disgusted look on my face. "Lazaro is even worse," he says. "I don't care which one of them ends up on top after this. I just want to be sure I'm there when they get their hands on you."

"I don't plan on letting them _get their hands on me_ any time soon. But if _you_ ever touch me again..."

My hand whips his own blade out of its sheath to press against his neck. He makes a move as if to struggle, but my other hand pressing to his forehead and unleashing a dose of Naturalism stops him cold. He blinks his eyes rapidly as my power enters his body and disrupts its ability to process sight. There's nothing physically wrong with him. It's just a trick my family's butler, Manuel, taught me when we would play our own version of hide and seek. It made sure the seeker wasn't cheating. It isn't permanent and only lasts as long as the person doing it stays focused on maintaining the trick. The Guardian doesn't know that, though.

"Stay away from me, or next time I'll make this permanent. You won't see anyone kill me, and you certainly won't see me coming either." I drop the blade and withdraw my power, but not before sending a tendril of Concealment into his mind. I need to make sure this little incident doesn't become a headline on tonight's news.

Regaining his sight, the Guardian takes a menacing step forward.

"I wouldn't, Douglas Rudolph, who lives with his wife and three children at 2378 Harvest Place." Doug's eyes swell into saucers. Concealment searched out the most basic information of his life so quickly I doubt he even knew I did it.

"Are you threatening me?" he barks.

"No, I'm protecting myself."

I didn't wait for him to respond. My words, which were indeed a threat—though not one I could ever force myself to carry out—keep him from following me. I gather my dropped bags in trembling hands and push my way through the crowd to the electronics store. Milo sees me as soon as I cross the threshold. He waves me over and into a discussion about DVDs and Bluerays. I nod and make a general comment, but I have no clue what is said. In the end, I choose one that looks decent enough and pass it off to Milo. I just want to get out of this place.

"Please tell me we're done now, Libby. I don't think I can take much more of this," Milo says as we step out into the heat.

"You're the one who stood there arguing with the electronics guy for forever. I didn't care which one we got as long as it could play a movie."

"I still think we should have gotten the PS3. It plays Bluerays." His pout is both earnest and laughable at the same time. It begins to distract me from thinking about the encounter with the Guardian.

"You just wanted to play video games on it," I argue.

He shakes his head at me. "Well, what else are we going to do in the room? You can only watch so much reality TV before your brain melts. And both the DVDs we got are chick movies."

_The_ room, instead of _your_ room. The DVDs _we_ got. Everything he says pushes my dark thoughts further into the back of my mind. When did we stop shopping for _me_ and started shopping for _us_? It is ridiculous, of course. We hardly even know each other, but it makes me smile to know that he just expects we will be together after school. Maybe it's purely a survival instinct for him, maybe it's something else entirely, but for now I'm glad of the company even if he is a little strange. He fell asleep yesterday for two hours, and then he took off after dinner without an explanation.

"Just open the trunk please, so I can get rid of these bags," I say when we reach his car.

"I'm not sure all of that is even going to fit in there."

"Milo, would you please quit whining? I feel like I'm hanging out with a two-year-old."

In response to that, he actually sticks his tongue out at me. It's so unexpected that I lose my stern expression and laugh. Pleased with himself, he closes the trunk on my purchases, barely, and leans against the car. "Are we done or not?" he asks.

I narrow my eyes at him and seriously consider thinking up at least two more stores that I absolutely _have_ to go to today. My aching feet and back protest as vehemently as Milo would at the idea of more shopping. Plus, I do not want a repeat of what happened by the bathrooms.

"Yes," I say, "we're done."

"Sweet. Get in the car." Milo bounds around to his own side so quickly I once again have serious doubts about whether or not his diktats are accurate about his talents. "Come on, come on," he demands. It's time to find a car and he knows it.

Just to be a snot, I take my time walking over to the passenger's door, pulling it open, and sliding into my seat. I plan to do the same with my seatbelt, but the way Milo lurches out of the parking space before I can even touch it forces me to scramble to get it clicked into place. He's out of the parking lot faster than I can even form a coherent thought.

"Where are we going? I didn't even tell you where I want to look."

"So? I already found what you're looking for," he says. There's excitement in his voice, but he somehow manages to keep it from his face. He looks terribly serious. It's an odd look for him.

"What do you mean you already found it?" I ask.

"Just what I said."

"But I didn't even tell you what I wanted to look at."

He huffs at me. "What does that matter? You said I get to pick."

"Oh no, I didn't. I said you could _help_ me pick out a new car."

His calm expression finally cracks. He grins at me shamelessly. "Close enough," he says. "Stop whining."

I stick my tongue out at him this time and settle in for the ride. He's going to pay for this later. See if I help him set up any of the new stuff we got today. We. Ha, I'm doing it too. The mini-fridge and hotplate won't take much, but the bookshelf and little dresser are going to take some time. Maybe I'll watch one of my chick movies while he works. Or play around with my new cell phone or laptop.

Before I can fully enjoy my vengeful thoughts, Milo is pulling off the main road and meandering through a middle class neighborhood. I look over at him to question his choice of routes since there aren't any dealerships within miles of here, but his stoic focus on the road doesn't waver. Several short minutes later he pulls up to the curb and turns off the car.

"Where are we?" I ask. Maybe this is his house? My interest piques. I know virtually nothing about him. Is he actually going to give me some hint of who he is under the grunge and blasé attitude?

"Um, I believe we are just off Central at a house that belongs to a guy named Bryan," Milo responds.

Okay, it's not Milo's house. I'm surprisingly disappointed. "Why are we here?"

"To pick up your new car, obviously. Come on." He jumps out before I can respond. I'm left either sitting in the car like a petulant child or following him and possibly regretting it very deeply. Well, it wouldn't be the first thing I regretted doing.

I push the door open and meet Milo as he comes around the car. He is _so_ enjoying himself. I'm definitely watching my movie tonight. I hope he has fun trying to figure out the ridiculously vague instructions that always come with unassembled furniture. I bet he'll have even more fun if I hide the English instructions and make him try to use the Spanish ones. I know I will.

Milo rings the doorbell and steps back. A husky man, slowly going bald, opens the door and offers his hand. "Milo, nice to see you again, and you must be Libby," he says turning to me. He tries not to flinch when I extend my hand. It's more effort than anyone else has made today. I wonder if Milo tried to prepare him. "I'm Bryan."

"Nice to meet you, Bryan," I say, genuinely appreciating his even letting me look at his car.

He turns back to Milo, looking relieved not to have to face me anymore, and says, "Your girlfriend's a little thing. You think she can handle Betsy?"

Betsy? Did he seriously name his car Betsy? Girlfriend? Did Bryan just call me Milo's girlfriend? I glance over at Milo to see him shove his hands in his pockets and duck his head down to hide his expression from me. How exactly did Bryan get the impression that I was Milo's girlfriend? Does Milo's embarrassment come from being caught, or from being caught off guard? But more importantly, why don't I mind Bryan's mistake? I should. I should mind a lot, actually.

"Can we see Betsy?" Milo asks without looking up.

"Sure, sure. She's behind the fence there." Bryan leads us over to a wooden fence next to his garage. He unlocks a latch and swings the big double gates open.

My jaw drops. I can't believe it. My hand flies up to my mouth to smother the giggles bubbling out of it. Everything I manage to bottle up sinks down into my feet and I start hopping up and down in place, completely unable to contain myself. When I can tear my gaze away from it I look over at Milo, who is laughing at me. I don't even care.

"Go. Take a look at it. Make sure it's what you want," Milo says.

I bound away from him. Bryan's voice follows me.

"Never seen a girl get so excited about a twenty-year-old Bronco. She must be a big fan of the model, for some reason."

Milo's voice is laced with amusement when he says, "You could say that."

I grin even bigger and run my hands along the body. It's perfect. It's blue instead of the red one I had tried to get the first time around, but everything else is the same. It even has a winch on the front. Finding the door unlocked, I pull it open and climb inside. As I do, I realize the reason behind Bryan's comment about my size. I have to step quite a bit higher to get into this Bronco than I did on the last one. I peek down at the tires before I understand. There must be a lift on this to fit the massive things. They'll be perfect for rock crawling, though. I bounce into the driver's seat, close my eyes, and inhale the scent of cleaner and air freshener.

"You like it?" he asks as he comes up next to me. My reaction should have been answer enough, but there is a subtle hint of uncertainty in his voice. I can't feel it from him at all, but it's there.

Without opening my eyes I reach for his hand. "I love it. Thank you, Milo."

I can feel his shrug in the way his hand bobs up and down. "No big deal. I'm glad you like it."

I know this wasn't a casual find, though. It was something more. And I'm not going to forget it. Crap, there go my movie watching plans. I guess I'll have to help put furniture together after all. I open my eyes and meet Milo's gaze. My hand tightens around his. Under the force of his completely unguarded expression, one of honest pleasure, it's hard to keep from doing even more.

Bryan claps a hand on Milo's shoulder, startling him into dropping my hand. The urge to smack Bryan has to be channeled into a tight smile. "So what do you think?" he asks, still keeping a careful distance from me.

"I'll take it," I say quickly.

"Milo thought you'd say that," Bryan chuckles.

He slips a blue piece of paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. I have to unfold it to realize it's the title for the Bronco. I'm locked in a momentary bout of confusion. I've never bought a used car before, but I thought you generally don't hand over the title until after you get paid for the vehicle. Why is he giving it to me now? I'm not even sure how much he's asking, but I'm guessing I'll have to head to the bank first.

I turn to say something to Bryan. He and Milo are shaking hands. Like they've just completed some business. Bryan says something about keys and starts walking back toward his house. Bryan's comments start clicking into place. He said Milo thought I'd want to buy it before I even saw it. He thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend. And he handed over the title like everything else was already taken care of. I jump out of the car and jam my finger against Milo's chest.

"You didn't," I seethe. "Please tell me you didn't, Milo."

"Didn't what?"

I push against him a little harder. "Tell me you didn't already buy the Bronco."

He frowns and taps his finger against his lips. "I'm guessing you'll know if I'm lying to you, right?"

I nod slowly.

"Sorry, then."

Fury, anger, delight, desire, they all crash around inside me for a few seconds before I can get a handle on myself. "You bought the Bronco?" I ask.

"Yeah. For you."

My accusing finger starts to tremble and I have to press it against Milo to hide it. I can't believe he did this. Not only would I never have expected something like this from him, but some part of me is a little frightened by this gesture. We've known each other for less than a week. I don't get it. "Why?" I ask. "And if you shrug, I'll slap you."

Midway through a shrug, Milo freezes and lowers his shoulders. His voice holds almost zero emotion as he explains himself. "I didn't know if you could afford it. I knew I could, so I bought it last night. You needed a car. Now you have one."

This is by far the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time. I shove him back a step anyway. "You're such an idiot, Milo."

His eyebrows rise in surprise. "Excuse me?"

I shake my head at him. "I have half a million dollars in an account that only my dad and I have access to. He set it up for me before he died. My mom can't touch it. I have more than enough money to live off, especially since I probably only have two years left to live anyway."

Milo's expression doesn't change. "Well, that's good to know for future reference. It doesn't change anything now, though. The Bronco's yours."

"Milo..."

"It's done."

"But..."

His fingers on my lips...hmm, cut off the rest of my sentence. After letting myself indulge for a few brief seconds in his touch, I gently pull his fingers away from my mouth. He eyes me speculatively.

"Milo," I say quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

The corner of his mouth tugs up into a half smile, and what does he say? "No problem."

At least he didn't shrug at me again. He leans forward and my breath catches in my chest, until he turns aside and brings his mouth next to my ear. "You want to know the real reason I bought the Bronco for you?" he asks.

"Why?" I ask, sounding ridiculously breathy.

"Because now you'll feel so indebted to me you can't help but save my life when Lance comes after me. With all your shopping done, and a car to take you wherever you want, what was going to keep you from sticking to our deal?" he says. "Now I've got you for sure."

His last sentence sends prickles up my spine. My concerns of a few moments ago resurface suddenly. Is that really why? His words are teasing, but as usual, there is a serious edge to what he says. I feel frozen until a slight smile works its way onto Milo's lips. He's just teasing, I tell myself with a sigh. I push him away roughly and laugh. "You're such a jerk."

"But a jerk who just bought you a car."

"Yeah, yeah," I say. "You're so putting the furniture together by yourself."

Chapter 12

Perfectly Logical Reasons

It was too late to take the Bronco out the day we got it. I spent the whole next week doing my best to ignore the hostilities at school and wishing I could be out in Montessa Park instead. With its completely undeveloped five-hundred-plus acres of land, it's one of my favorite places to go off-roading. It's the closest too, which makes heading there on the weekend a lot more feasible for me than driving up to Moab or the canyons in Southern Colorado.

I'm not an adrenaline junkie, not even close. When I go four-wheeling, it isn't to find the steepest cliffs and scariest routes possible. Searching out places bare of people and their mocking, a place that is remote and calm enough to almost convince me that man and their prophecies have no bearing on me is why I like to four-wheel. It's an escape from reality.

When I suggested taking the Bronco out to Montessa Park this morning, Milo was pretty easy to convince. As we roll out of the park with the sun setting behind us, I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes. I smile for what feels like the first time in years. This was exactly what I needed. We didn't see another person all day. No name calling, no accidental shoving or tripping, no glaring, no misery. I had almost forgotten what that felt like. Today brought it all back.

Milo and I spent more time laughing and holding our breath over the more dangerous routes Milo just had to try despite my telling him no, than talking today, but I didn't mind at all. I don't mind it now, either. The sound of whirring tires on asphalt and air streaming over the less than aerodynamic car are the only sounds as we drive back toward the city. Even before my Inquest, I can't remember ever feeling this at peace. There was always the fear and worry about my future looming in my mind. Although everyone knows who I am now, and hates me for it, at least it's out there. It's not a secret I have to hide. That's something.

The buzzing of wind and tires slows to silence as Milo pulls into the parking space in front of my motel room. I pull myself up in my seat and look over at him. "Thanks for coming with me today, Milo. I had a blast."

"No problem. I had fun too. I'm up for crawling anytime," he says. "In fact, I'm not doing anything important tomorrow..."

"You should be," I interrupt.

He stares at me with one eyebrow cocked.

"I know you have a big English paper due Monday, and I have a hundred trig problems I'm still trying to wade through."

"Why do you care?" Milo asks. "It's just school. Grades really don't matter, especially not for you."

"Why, because I'm not going to live long enough for my GPA to get me into a good college anyway?" I snap. I regret my harsh tone instantly, but that attitude has been thrown in my face all week. None of my teachers will help me because of who I am, but also because they know my grades won't matter in two years. Everyone is just biding their time until I'm dead.

"That's not what I meant," Milo says.

"Then what did you mean?"

Milo looks at me hard, his steely eyes focused on mine. "Just that you're more powerful than anyone else on this planet. Who's going to stop you from doing anything? Who cares about your GPA or whether or not you go to college. You could rule the world if you really wanted to."

"Well, I don't want to," I say firmly. "I just want to get through high school and live my life without people trying to kill me."

Looking away from me, Milo turns off the car. "Well, we both know that's not going to happen."

He pushes his door open and steps out. Filled with frustration at him and everyone else I've come into contact with lately, I find myself unable to get out of the car for several seconds. Milo could get in his own car and drive off, leave me to wallow in my self-pity, but he doesn't. He waits at the front of the Bronco for me to get out and join him. Eventually I do. I slide up next to him and lean against the Bronco's grill.

I'm not mad at him exactly, just annoyed that he put a dent in my good mood. Maybe school shouldn't matter to me, but it does. It always has. I've hated school since the first day of kindergarten. I still dread walking through the doors every morning. That doesn't change the fact that it has always been the one consistently normal thing in my life. I've spent my life hiding my talents, fighting my mom, and running from Guardians. Outside of school, my life has always been a mess. Inside those dreary walls, I'm just one of thousands plugging along. I know that's not totally true anymore, but it's still pretty close. There's that, plus I'm not ready to admit I have no future beyond my eighteenth birthday.

"You want me to come over tomorrow and help you with your trig?" Milo asks.

I've yet to see Milo actually do any homework. He's obviously only offering as a way to apologize. Still, it's sweet of him to offer. "Sure," I say, glad the dark night hides the small smile on my lips.

"Alright then," Milo says as he pushes away from the Bronco, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sounds good."

Milo waits until I am safely inside my room before driving away. He tries to pretend he has absolutely no concern for anything, but every once in a while he lets a little hint of his gentleman side slip out. Despite the frustration of our conversation outside, it's been a good day. Across the room lie my drawing pad and charcoals. Nothing makes me want to draw more than being happy. It's such a rare feeling, I usually pounce on it right away. I'm about to do just that when I spot my tiny little motel-sized trashcan overflowing with food wrappers and scrap paper. Part of me wants to just leave it there, but I know it's going to bug me all night and screw up my focus when I'm trying to draw.

My charcoals stay put for a little while longer as I gather up the trash and tie the bag off. I've yet to witness anything even remotely creepy or scary around the hotel, but I still sweep the parking lot for anything dangerous looking before I step out. Whatever made President Howe let me go back to school has kept the Guardians away from me so far, but I have no idea how long that will last. My attention is so focused on spotting lurking killers that I don't notice the silver Mercedes until I turn away from the dumpster.

Our eyes lock on one another and I can't move. I don't know how I missed his car. I rode to school in it every day for almost an entire year, not to mention trips to the movies, dinner, or sneaking out at night. Lance stares at me from the dark interior, his blue eyes narrow and his hands clenched on the steering wheel.

The only complete thought I can manage is, _h_ _e knows where I live_. Pure, freezing fear drips down my spine. He'll tell his dad! He'll tell the Guardians and Lazaro might find out. I seriously doubt Howe can control Lazaro half as well as he thinks he can.

I don't have anywhere else to go. Slowly, my feet start moving independent of my brain. They carry me away from the dumpster and away from Lance. His eyes follow me every step, never moving or faltering.

I slip back inside my room. My charcoals are abandoned for a blade. The long hunting knife stays in my hand as I wait at my window for any sign of the attack I know must be coming. Lance's car doesn't move. Hour after hour I sit there, crouched and ready. I can't see his face from where I sit, but it hovers in my mind regardless. Lance's eyes stay with me all night, long after I fall asleep during my vigil, into my dreams, and they are still there when I wake. Not literally—Lance must have left sometime during the night—but I can still feel him watching all day.

If Milo notices my preoccupation when he comes over, he doesn't say anything about it. Focusing on my math homework is even more impossible than usual, and eventually we just give up and watch a movie. When Milo picks me up for school Monday morning, I can't help searching the parking lot again for Lance's car. It isn't there. That doesn't mean he isn't watching, though.

Since seeing his car I have wondered non-stop why he chose such a blatant spot. Lance will one day make a superb Guardian. He knows tactics better than anyone I've ever met. He's the fastest and strongest in class, and he's smarter than parking his car in the middle of the parking lot when he's trying to spy on someone. Clearly he wanted me to see him, to know he's watching me. But why?

Lance has spent every second at school doing everything he can to get people to hate me. A lot of them don't believe in me as much as they should, but his efforts do enough to make sure everyone skirts around me like they're afraid I'm contagious. Is this just another form of his torture? It doesn't make sense.

I have spent plenty of mental power this week hating Lance's guts, but as I think about why he would want me to know he's watching me, a traitorous part of my heart comes up with an alternate reason. Could Lance still be trying to watch over me? The idea of him trying to protect me is more disturbing than him doing recon for his father, but the idea lodges in my head and makes me wonder about everything Lance has done since my Inquest.

The fact that no Guardians tried to kill me over the weekend is reassuring, but as I walk to the gym for Speed and Strength training I realize Lance doesn't have any need to send Guardians after me. I'm coming to them. My stomach lurches and almost dislodges my breakfast when my foot hits the hardwood floor of the gym. I can't go in. I'm stuck in the doorway unable to force any of my muscles to move. Something crashes into me from behind, throwing my body forward. My fear disappears completely, and I stumble back to my feet and into a fighting crouch.

"Get out of the doorway," Angus growls. He steps forward aggressively, and the goons behind him do the same.

"Don't touch me," I warn him.

His face screws into a mask of disgust. "Don't touch me," he mimics in a high, annoying voice. The idiots behind him snicker. Angus's gaze only darkens. "I don't know if you're really as pathetic as you pretend you are in class, or if the stories about you are all just a bunch of crap, but either way, I'm not scared of you, Libby."

Oh, if only I could show him what I can really do, let him choke on my real power. Strength hums in my muscle cells. My talents are straining to be released. I had my hands raised defensively in front of me, and when my fingers start shaking Angus smirks. He clearly thinks I'm shaking out of fear. That only makes my desire to pound his face in even more intense. I have to dig deep to find enough discipline to hold back.

Angus doesn't have the same problem. His finger jams against my chest. "I said get out of my way."

I should just move. Play the weak, helpless little girl I want everyone to think I am.

I've never been very good at weak and helpless.

"Get your grimy finger off me, and I'll consider it."

Fire flashes in Angus's eyes. "Oh, you'll do more than consider it."

His fingers slide across my collar bone, making me gag, and continue their way up my neck. The soft touch makes me panic. I don't know what he's doing. Not until his hand reaches the back of my neck, grabs a fistful of hair, and yanks. My head jerks back. Even though my skull is stinging I refuse to let him see it. I have to tap my Naturalism to keep tears from falling, but I hold it together.

"Destroyer, or not, there is nothing you can do to stop me." Angus forces my face to within inches of his. I'm close enough to bite his nose off. If he considers that, it's clear he doesn't believe I could do it. I want so badly to prove him wrong. But I don't. Angus smiles mockingly. "See, boys, she's nothing but a freaking bedtime story. I could get rid of her right now and end this whole overblown mess if I really wanted to."

"Then why don't you?" I ask. "If you're so sure I can't rip you into kibble-sized pieces, why haven't you gotten rid of me already?"

"Because I don't care to waste my time on you."

That might be partly true. He certainly never wasted any time trying to be nice to me before unless Lance was around for him to impress. That's certainly not the only reason, though. If I can't rearrange his perfectly Romanesque features, I'm at least going to mess up his image. I know, stupid, but I can't resist.

"You don't want to waste your time on me? What are you doing right now?" I ask. I glare at him and exert the tiniest bit of Spiritualism—the most I can manage—to manipulate his fear and take it up a few notches. "You can say whatever you want, Angus, but you and I both know you're too scared to ever actually do anything. You want to look macho now, but inside you're so scared you're about to piss your pants. I can feel it."

Just to emphasize my point I tap my Naturalism, toss it over to him, and put a little extra pressure on his bladder. His eyes fly wide, and he yanks back on my hair, throwing me to the floor. Away from him. Little pussy. It's so satisfying seeing him in such a panic that I laugh before thinking better of it. I can't use my Speed, but he can use his. His hand is around my throat half a second after the sound escapes my lips.

"Keep your talents away from me you little..."

"Get your hands off her!" Lance's voice booms across the gym.

Surprise flashes through both me and Angus. Lance? Why is he helping me? Neither of us moves.

"I said let go of her, Angus!"

Angus's grip slackens and I shove his hand the rest of the way off my skin. I scramble back up to my feet and stare at Lance. What is he doing? He's focused on Angus, though, not me, so the only thing his expression gives away is anger.

"What?" Angus snaps.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing!"

Lance's eyes narrow even more. "Then how'd your hand end up around her neck?"

"She was in my way," Angus argues.

"In your way?"

"She threatened me! What was I supposed to do?" Angus's gaze momentarily leaves Lance to glare at me. Lance follows. His eyes are just as blue as they've ever been, but there's something darker at their core now. It makes me shiver.

"If you touch her one more time, I will personally make sure you never do it again," Lance threatens.

Angus stares at him in disbelief. "Are you seriously trying to protect her?"

Maybe I just imagine it, but I swear Lance pauses for a moment before answering. Could I have possibly been right? I don't understand that, but a small part of my anger at him chips away. Lance flicks his gaze away from me and back to Angus.

"I'm not protecting her, you idiot, I'm protecting _you_ ," Lance snarls. "If Clement finds out about this, he'll put you on probation and then you'll never get the chance to really stop her. Now get out of here before I tell Clement myself."

Angus hesitates for a minute but eventually nods. He and his pack of morons trail off to the locker room. I don't pay them any more attention. My mind is completely focused on Lance. "I..." I begin, not even sure what to say, but before I can figure it out, Lance turns and storms away from me without saying a word.

I'm left standing there, more confused than ever. First, I find him outside my motel room, watching...protecting? Now he stops Angus from attacking me. It would appear that he didn't tell anyone that he figured out where I'm staying, given that no one tried to kill me over the weekend. Despite the perfectly logical reasons he gave Angus for stepping in, part of me doubts his words. I'm not really sure what that means, though. Is he actually trying to help me, or just making sure no one kills me before he gets the chance to do it himself?

Chapter 13

Nothing

In the weeks since my run-in with Angus, I've only caught Lance spying on me twice. I think he's been there more often than that, but he's gotten better at hiding. There are times when I feel the brush of his familiar presence somewhere near me, but I don't see him anywhere. I could find him if I tried, but to be honest, I don't want to. I don't want to think about him watching me or his reasons for doing so.

We've spent so much of our lives together, my Perception can feel it when he gets too close to me. If he tries to kill me again, I know I'll be able to stop him. If he's really trying to protect me, I don't want to be faced with that either. The more I think about it, the harder it is to hate him. It scares me that when I think about him sneaking around, I feel safer knowing he's there. He has always protected me, but I can't let myself believe he always will.

Another concern about Lance's spying is that Milo's pretty much always by my side lately. His intentions aren't any clearer than Lance's, but I know for sure that if he sees Lance, or Lance tries anything, Milo will be more than willing to beat him into a pulp. I tell myself I would like to see Lance punished, but I don't think I could ever really hurt him or let anyone else hurt him. He's too much a part of me. So I stick close to Milo and do my best to pretend Lance doesn't exist.

I wish Milo were here now. Not because of Lance, but because having Milo next to me right now is about the only thing that will make my Spiritualism class even mildly interesting. Not that I don't think having a talent for Spiritualism is important, but I just don't see how it's going to help me stay alive. Going into the spirit world has absolutely zero benefit for me. Being able to connect with people's souls in order to comfort or guide them doesn't have a lot of offensive possibilities, either. Comforting President Howe out of wanting to kill me doesn't seem very likely.

At least the rest of the school seems to be slowly getting used to me. It's been nearly a week since anyone tried to injure me. Most of the world didn't believe in me before my Inquest. They only believed after because the Guardians made such a big deal about it. People still avoid me, but in general that's them doing what they usually did before. I've never been everyone's favorite person.

Even the other Guardians-in-training seem to have given up trying to find a way around the law that will let them kill me and have settled for pretending I don't exist. But again, that's what they did before they knew who I was, so things actually seem like they're getting back to normal. When the bell finally rings for the end of Spiritualism, I'm actually anxious to get through my next couple of classes so I can head to Mr. Walters' class. At least his class will be interesting.

I don't realize how much more interesting until I walk into the normally empty classroom and find Milo sitting next to the seat I usually occupy. "What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Milo has decided to audit my class. I hope you don't mind having a companion, Libby," Mr. Walters says.

"No, not at all."

"Give me a moment to gather my notes and we'll get started."

Tuning out the rustling noise of his preparations, I make my way to my seat. Right away, my thoughts center on Lance and Milo continually antagonizing each other. Milo doesn't know anything about Lance following me, but he can't stop himself from mouthing off at Lance every time he sees him, and Lance's jealousy goads him into responding every time. Lance has come dangerously close to getting suspended several times already. I cringe every time I think of him getting tossed out of school and losing his dream. Usually when I hear him talking about me, doing his best to make sure everyone remembers who I am so they stay properly scared of me, I find it much easier to put him out of my mind, but lately that's been harder knowing he might be watching over me. Still, Milo would rather be doing just about anything than taking on extra classes. Something must have happened.

I lean over to Milo, and whisper, "What are you really doing here? Is there a problem with Lance?"

"Yes. So I came running in here to protect myself like a scared child. You give me no credit at all, do you?" Milo says drily.

I just frown and wait for a real answer.

"Amazingly enough, I didn't end up getting detention from anyone today. What else was I supposed to do while I waited for you?"

"Read a book? Do your homework? Something productive."

"This is productive."

I cock an eyebrow at him.

"Class is starting," he says.

I have a feeling there's some other reason he's here, but whatever it is, I'm not going to find it out until after class. I turn in my seat and face Mr. Walters, who has made his way back to the front of the room.

"This is wonderful," Mr. Walters says. "Milo tells me that he is very interested in learning more about the Destroyer class. I thoroughly applaud his initiative. Perhaps if others had followed in my path, we would have had some warning of your coming."

I was only half listening, but his last sentence slips into my mind clearly. "Wait, what was that? What do you mean there wasn't any warning? Who was supposed to warn people?"

"Becoming a Guardian typically only requires one to have Speed and Strength, but occasionally certain individuals are gifted with Speed, Strength, and Vision. Once trained, these people are often recruited into an elite rank of Guardians known as Seekers. Their Vision commonly allows them to anticipate attacks from enemies during a battle, which allows them to avoid injury. Even more importantly, though, is that they can sometimes foretell the possibility of conflict days, months, even years in the future. It had long been believed among the Seekers that they would be able to predict the coming of the Destroyer and prepare for her arrival."

"Guess they were wrong," Milo says.

Mr. Walters pauses. "Quite."

"I've never heard of these Seekers," I say.

"They are a closely guarded secret," Mr. Walters says. "You only learn of them when you are inducted into their ranks."

"So...you're one of them?" Milo asks.

"Formerly."

"Huh, you would think something like that would be pretty hard to get out of."

"Incredibly difficult," Mr. Walters says.

Milo's eyes narrow with incredulity. "Then how did you get out?"

"The hard way," he replies.

In the time that I've known Mr. Walters, I have never seen him wear a short-sleeved shirt. I thought it was merely due to the cool, fall weather outside. As he unbuttons his cuffs and pushes back his sleeves, I realize there is another reason entirely. The gasp that escapes my throat is completely involuntary, but utterly appropriate. Scars crisscross his forearms to the point of there being no unmarred flesh left. The horrible knowledge that his arms are likely not the only part of his body that looks this way blankets me. Even Milo looks disturbed by the display.

"Why did you leave?" I ask.

"Because I disagreed with the way they operated. They believed that they could simply wait around in their lair for one of them to glimpse your presence, then march out to kill you when they did. It was a ridiculous notion, of course. How were they supposed to see something they knew nothing about? Vision is erratic at best. Other Visionaries have told people for centuries that their talents work best when they are familiar with the subject they're trying to glimpse.

"It's the precise reason that Visionaries who are not particularly talented usually only receive glimpses of members of their own family or close friends," he says. "I tried to explain this to the other Seekers, but they were so sure of their own tactics that they didn't bother to listen. So I left to continue my work on my own."

He says it like it was a polite disagreement. Judging by his scars, it was anything but. I'm certainly not going to press him for the gory details, at least not right now. Having more information about these Seekers will be invaluable if I ever have to face them, though. Which I probably will.

"So none of the Seekers ever had a premonition about me?" I ask.

Mr. Walters smiles like I imagine a grandparent would to a silly grandchild. "If they had, you would already be dead, my dear. The Seekers follow a much looser code of conduct than the rest of the Guardians."

My spine twitches in revulsion. I can't imagine the terror of having men and woman capable of scarring one of their own so badly slip into my room at night with the intention of murdering me. There is little doubt in my mind that they would wake me before they slit my throat just so they could watch the life fade from my eyes.

"How did President Howe get to me so quickly then? I was only unconscious for a few hours, but he and Lazaro were already there. Someone must have known about me."

Mr. Walters stops moving. His eyes stare past me at nothing in particular. "I don't know. Perhaps they were already in the area when they were notified of you."

I'd say he was acting kind of strange, but he always acts strange. I don't know what to make of this newest oddity.

"Besides," he says, coming back to himself, "Howe has use of a Leer jet. He can travel very quickly that way. He may not have needed to be close by."

Hmm. I wasn't sure how fast a Leer jet could go, but I suppose Mr. Walters is probably right.

"What about you?" Milo asks in the silence that has fallen.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Walters asks.

Milo folds his arms across his chest and stares at the old man. "Did you have any glimpses or premonitions? You've studied the Destroyer class most of your life. If your theory was correct, shouldn't you have seen Libby coming?"

Bending his wrinkled lips into a rueful smile, Mr. Walters returns Milo's stare. There seems to be appreciation for Milo's insight in his eyes. "I wouldn't go so far as to say I had either a premonition or glimpse of Libby, but I was drawn to this town by her presence. I grew up in Boston, served as a Seeker in Los Angeles, and retired from that service in Colorado. Sixteen years ago, I felt the need to move to the desert. Once in a while I would get the distinct impression that the power I was looking for was being used. It guided me to this school just over five years ago, though until I met you, Libby, I had no idea who I was looking for. You, my dear, are extremely good at hiding your talents."

The subtle hint of awe in his voice is reflected in Milo's expression. It makes my skin crawl. "I've had a lot of practice," I mumble.

"Yes, I suppose you have," Mr. Walters agrees. "But how? How did you do it? You must have come into your powers almost from birth, because I felt your presence days after you were born."

I hate it when he turns his planned lecture into a "Let's ask Libby a million questions" session, but in a weird way, it is actually a huge relief to talk about everything I've tried to hide for so long. Plus, Mr. Walters really does enjoy hearing me explain everything. It's funny to watch him get so eager and interested. So, once again, I indulge his obsession for no good reason.

"The first time I remember actually using any of my talents is when I was three years old. I was playing with a rubber ball in my backyard. I kicked it especially hard and it went over the fence into my neighbor's yard. My dad was at work, so I tried to get my mom to help me. She was busy, so I decided to get it by myself. I climbed the tree that leaned over into their yard and jumped down—which I didn't realize until much later that I should have hurt myself doing—and went to find my ball.

"I found my ball pretty quickly. It was in the jaws of a Rottweiler named Max. I remember being furious that the dog had popped my ball. I yelled at it. Stupid idea, but I was only three. It dropped the ball and starting growling and walking toward me. I was terrified. It reached me so fast. I still don't know what possessed me to do it, but I reached out and put my hand right on its nose. I could feel the dog's spirit immediately. It reminded me of a porcupine, sharp and bristling. I didn't like how it felt. I could feel its anger washing over me, so I pushed it away, off of me, and out of the dog, too. He stopped growling and his spirit mellowed into something that felt like marshmallow fluff. Max never bothered me again.

"After that encounter with the dog, I started to realize that I was doing things other people couldn't. I didn't understand why that was, but something deep inside of me told me it was dangerous to let anyone see what I could do. I hated hiding, especially from my dad, but I knew I had to," I say.

In the end, my skills at hiding my true identity weren't enough. I tried to protect my dad from the knowledge of who I was, but I didn't do a good enough job. He found out, and he died.

"Amazing," Mr. Walters says. "At three years old you were able to access your talents. Strength to kick the ball and protect yourself from being injured when you dropped from the tree, Naturalism and Spiritualism to connect with the dog, and Perception to feel its emotions. You were even able to tap them with enough strength to actually do something productive. Most don't even begin to manifest talents until they're young adults, and even then they have so little control over them that they're practically useless."

"Lucky them," I say.

I would be thrilled to be one of those people. I look over to see Milo's reaction to my story, hoping it isn't as dramatic as that of Mr. Walters. I'm not sure he even heard me, actually. Milo is frowning again, something I'm beginning to realize means he's thinking very deeply. When I first met him I might have wondered if it hurt him to think, given his disregard for school, but now I know better. He may hate school, but Milo is neither stupid nor incompetent. I wait patiently to hear what he has to say.

"So why don't the Seekers come after Libby now? They know where she is. The whole world knows who she is thanks to the reporters who like to follow her around. But all that's happened so far is we've had to take out of the way routes to avoid the few straggling reporters that hang around the school trying to get a glimpse of Libby and figure out where she's living. Why haven't the Seekers tried to kill her yet?" Milo asks.

"If they could have found her before she was revealed to the world, they would have. But now that she is known, she falls under the responsibility of the Guardians," Mr. Walters says.

"And they can't touch me for two years."

The older man's chuckling sounds like leaves tumbling along the ground. "A fact that I'm sure neither group is terribly happy about."

"Not to mention President Howe demanding everyone let me keep walking around like a normal person," I add.

"Yes, that is interesting, isn't it? I was quite surprised when I first heard about his edict, but I suppose I shouldn't have been," Mr. Walters says. "He's always had a flair for the dramatic, not to mention an ego that could swallow the entire world in one gulp."

"What do you mean?" I'm still pretty confused about why Howe didn't just send a team of Seekers after me the night of my Inquest.

Mr. Walters shakes his head. "Howe got to the top by force, but just beating his opponents wasn't enough. He always had to do it in the most memorable way possible. I remember his second-to-last opponent, Guardian Ivan Bok, particularly well. I still see that man's face every time I hear the word bamboo." He shutters and I refrain from asking for the details. I'll probably end up googling it later, but I don't want to think about all the spectacularly awful ways President Howe might kill me right now.

"I still don't see what's stopping the Seekers," Milo says, interrupting our conversation as if he weren't even aware of it. Frustration has him sitting up straight for once. "If the Seekers were going to kill her in secret before, why wouldn't they kill her in secret now? Nobody even knows about them. If Libby ended up dead everyone would just suppose some rogue Guardian or crazy citizen had taken things into his own hands. Traditional boundaries can't possibly mean very much to the Seekers when their whole world is at stake. They could come after her at night when no one else is around and no one would ever suspect them."

Milo looks up and meets Mr. Walters' eyes. "What's really stopping them from killing her?"

Mr. Walters' voice loses all its mirth. "Nothing."

Chapter 14

Celia

"Milo, you can't spend the next two years brooding over this," I say. He ignores me, of course, and sits on my little dresser. "Um, I don't think that thing's sturdy enough for you to sit on."

"Are you doubting my carpentry skills?" he asks, still frowning.

My derisive laugh makes him frown even more. "Yes, actually. I watched you put it together, remember? I still think those extra screws should have gone in there somewhere."

"I still can't believe you made me put it together by myself," he says. But he does get off the dresser. He almost sits in the sling chair we got along with the dresser before thinking better of it and joining me on the bed. That chair looked comfortable, but it was definitely not.

"You deserved it," I remind him.

"Ha, see if I ever buy you anything again." He lies back on the bed and sighs. I think his worry is finally starting to mellow. Thank goodness. This room is small enough without his nearly six-foot-tall frame pacing around all evening.

I lie down next to him, propped up on my elbow. Resisting the urge to snuggle up next to him is even more difficult than usual. I don't like seeing him so wound up. Even more, I hate knowing that being around me is doing this to him.

"Why don't we do something?" I suggest. "You said you brought some movies to watch, right?"

Milo growls at me, which unfortunately for him has the completely wrong effect on me. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "How can you not be as freaked out about the Seekers as I am?" he demands.

"I am freaked out, Milo."

"Well, you sure don't act like you are. It's...irritating that you want to watch a movie when a group of assassins we didn't even know existed until a few hours ago could be coming for you."

I can't help smiling this time. Not only is his worry over someone he should hate very endearing, but he's incredibly handsome when he's frustrated—despite his hair and lack of fashion sense. Milo doesn't appreciate my amusement. He jerks back up and turns away from me.

I pull myself up behind him and place my hand on his arm, tugging gently until he turns to look at me. "Milo, I'm not trying to irritate you. It's just that I've been dealing with this my whole life. I've always been afraid that someone was going to sneak up on me and slit my throat. Being afraid for my life is like an old blanket for me. It's nothing new. The Guardians are all poised to kill me on Howe's orders. Lazaro's followers are out there right now hatching a plan to get rid of me. Now there are Seekers. They're only one more twig on an already high stack of fears. I wouldn't know what to do if I didn't feel threatened."

"People shouldn't have to live like that. It's not right," he says softly.

"But it's how things are."

My hand slides down his arm to cover his hand. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he turns his palm up and winds his fingers with mine. Warmth races up my arm and surrounds my heart. I start to feel dizzy, so I lean my head on Milo's shoulder. Mostly because of the dizziness. I'm not sure if we sit there for seconds, or minutes, but I have to stifle a groan when Milo pulls away from me.

"You still up for a movie?" he asks.

"Sure. What'd you bring?"

He smiles, and says, "A classic."

A few minutes later I roll my eyes as _Terminator_ starts playing. "Seriously? This was the best you had?"

"Hey, I watched plenty of your girly movies. You owe me."

"Whatever. I saw you getting all choked up last night when the girl died," I say.

"Liar."

I'm pretty sure he would have been crying if he'd been watching it alone. Wimp. Not that I can say too much about it. I was crying myself. There certainly won't be any crying tonight.

Milo folds his pillow in half like he always does and lies down. His arms are folded across his chest, but I plunk down right next to him, near enough for him to take my hand if he wants to. He doesn't seem to notice the lack of distance. His emotions are so nonexistent right now I wouldn't even know he was here if Perception was all I had to go on. The scenes I've seen a dozen times before start playing across the screen. Not that I'll admit it to Milo after teasing him, but I actually like the _Terminator_ movies quite a bit. Milo is making it hard to pay much attention tonight, though.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Milo unexpectedly turns to me, and says, "Did you see all the posters they put up for the Winter Formal next weekend?"

And _Terminator_ made him think of that why? "Uh, yeah. Couldn't help notice. They were everywhere."

Silence. For a full two minutes.

"Were you thinking of going?" he asks.

I laugh. "No. I don't really relish the idea of dressing up just so people can gawk at me even more than they already do. Plus it'd be too easy for someone to sneak up on me at something like that." Then that little cartoon light bulb flickers on in my brain. "Why? Are you going?"

He shifts on the bed. He barely moves at all, and it might have been simple coincidence, but his arm moves just far enough to press up against mine. "Not alone," he says.

More silence. The noise of cars racing down freeways and bullets flying around the TV screen suddenly becomes very annoying. I just want to hear Milo.

"We could always go together," he finally says. "There would be a lot of witnesses, so I doubt the Guardians would try anything. Anyway, people seeing me at a dance will be more earth shattering than you showing up. They'll probably forget you're even there."

"It would really piss Lance off, too," I offer.

Milo's mouth twitches, almost smiling. "Most likely."

My insides are dancing with delight, but I haven't said yes, yet. Seeing Lance twisted up with jealousy would be satisfying, but it really doesn't sound like a good idea to put myself out there like that. Plus, making Lance mad isn't the reason I wanted Milo to ask me. I don't like it that they fight so much as it is. If either of them gets hurt, I would never forgive myself.

Milo is incredibly hard to figure out with his brooding, casual, sarcastic, teasing mishmash of personality traits. I...think he likes me, but he refuses to really show it. He always finds some way to joke or tease his way out of any situation that feels even remotely intimate. If all he wants is to be friends, I need to know that. Not to mention, the last time I went to a dance, it was with Lance. He'll be there for sure, but it won't be with me. I'm big enough to admit that will hurt. I don't really want to go to the dance, but I do want Milo to ask me. Silently, I wait.

"Plus," Milo says quietly, the emotions he's holding back from me quivering on the point of breaking out, "I wouldn't mind seeing you in a dress, maybe even with your hair curled, or something. I'd like to see that."

Relief is quickly overruled. "I don't curl my hair," I say abruptly.

Milo turns. "Why not?"

"I just don't."

I realize my mistake as soon as he sits up. His slate grey eyes lock with mine. "Why don't you curl your hair?" The stubborn, relentless look in his eyes is convincing. He is not going to let up. "Why?" he asks again.

"I'm _not_ curling my hair," I say, just as unwavering as he is.

He pauses for a moment. "But you'll go to the dance with me?"

"Yes," I snap without thinking.

Leaning back against his pillow with a bored expression, Milo says, "I'm not taking you unless you curl your hair."

"What?"

"You heard me."

He is going to regret this. I can be just as stubborn as he can. "Cut your hair, then," I demand.

"Huh?"

"Cut your hair, and I'll curl mine." Let's see how _he_ likes being put on the spot.

Wrong again.

Milo shrugs. "Okay."

"Wait. What?"

He runs his fingers through his hair and lets it fall back down in a tangled mess. "It is getting a bit long, isn't it? The dance starts at nine."

Completely unable to speak, I open and close my mouth several times without uttering a single word. Milo leans back on his pillow and closes his eyes. The movie plays on regardless of the fact that neither of us is watching it anymore. I slump against the headboard in defeat. How did he just do that?

"You know, if we're going to do this right, I should probably take you out to dinner before the dance. I'll pick you up at seven instead," Milo says. "Oh, and don't forget you'll need a dress."

"A dress?" I ask, though it sounds more like a squeak than actual words.

"It is a formal dance."

Oh crap, it is. I haven't worn a dress since...since my dad's funeral. I don't even own a dress anymore.

"And, before you ask," Milo says, "I don't do dress shopping. But you can take my little sister with you, if you want. She loves that kind of stuff."

It takes a moment for his words to really sink in. "You have a sister?"

"Yeah, Celia. She just turned fifteen a few weeks ago." His eyes are still closed as he moves his arms behind his head. Content, and a little smug, he looks as if he plans to stay there forever.

"You never told me you had a sister."

"You never asked."

"Why haven't I ever seen her at school?" I ask. Surely he's not one of those jerks that refuse to acknowledge his siblings at school.

"Celia goes to a charter school for performing arts. She's a really great dancer."

"Do you have any other siblings?" I ask, glad to know he's not a creep after all. I still can't believe he's never mentioned his sister to me.

Milo finally opens his eyes. "Nope. Do you?"

"No, I'm an only child," I say. My mind starts working again and his off-handed comment about his sister finally catches back up to me. "You want me to take your sister shopping. So, you've told her about me?"

"Uh-huh. She's been bugging me for weeks to meet you. Just tell me what day you want to go and we can pick her up from school, or you two can go out this weekend. She'll be pretty stoked."

She knows Milo has been hanging out with me, but if she's excited to meet me..."So you didn't tell her about who I am, though?" There's no way she'd want to go shopping with me if she knew.

Milo surprises me again. "No, she knows. She was a little worried at first, but we talked about it, and she's fine about us, now, although, she has been feeling a little left out since I've been hanging out with you. It sucks being at home with just the parents."

Celia being fine about "us" and Milo choosing to spend time with me over a sister he obviously cares about very much is not lost on me. I feel a little lightheaded suddenly, but I don't let that stop me.

"I feel bad that you've missed out on time with Celia. I didn't mean to keep you away from her." And I really have. Milo leaves early to come pick me up, comes to my room right after school to supposedly do homework—not that he ever does—and doesn't leave until late every night.

"Celia understands," Milo says. His carefully concealed emotions aren't washing over me, but there is a tense vibration hovering around him that he must not be aware of. "But maybe after you two get to know each other some, you wouldn't mind if she hung out with us once in a while."

"Of course, Milo, I'd love that."

His tension vanishes completely as the corners of his mouth turn up. Eyes closing again, Milo seems to sink into the bed with relief. I let my own smile spring into existence. He was worried that I wouldn't want his little sister around. They must be very close. Sweet, adorable, I just can't think of the right word to describe Milo caring that much about his little sister. It makes me want to curl up next to him and pull his arms around me. Not only is Milo willing to accept me, it would appear that Celia is too. Two down, seven billion to go.

"Do your parents know about me?" I ask suddenly.

Milo's eyes pop open. "Are you kidding me? We don't talk much, normally. I'm certainly not telling them about you."

"Oh," I say dejectedly. I guess that was too much to hope for.

Pushing up from his pillow, Milo looks at me. "It's not because I'm hiding you from them, or anything. Everyone at school already knows we're friends. It's just that, my parents...they wouldn't be able to handle this. And they'd take it out on you. I don't want that to happen."

I don't really know what to say. It was stupid to hope his parents, the ones who treat him so badly, would welcome me into their home. My mom is, in general, a pretty awful person, but she's my only family. I hate her for abandoning me, but I still miss her. I miss belonging to someone.

Before I can wallow too much, Milo's hands grip my waist and pull me down to the bed with him to finish watching the movie. "Celia's free this Saturday if you want to go shopping."

"That sounds great," I say.

I don't even realize I'm lying on his shoulder until his arm curls around me. The despair that had started to puddle inside me melts away. I nestle against him feeling closer to complete than I have in a very long time. It's pretty far from Milo actually admitting to any serious feelings for me, but he certainly knows how to make me feel better.

Chapter 15

Sporting Chance

I fell asleep in Milo's arms that night. If somebody's car alarm hadn't woken us both up around midnight, we may not have woken up at all. It was the latest Milo had ever stayed with me. He claimed it was worry about Seekers that made him linger even after we woke up, but it was the first night he hugged me before he left. Every night after that, he stayed late and wrapped me up in his baggy sweatshirt-clothed arms every time he came or left. Every hug eased a little more of my doubts about him, and I didn't resist.

This morning is no exception. Celia stands by Milo's car as he greets me with a hug. It's shorter than usual and he shoves his hands in his pockets as soon as he pulls back. His quick glance over at Celia explains his brisk greeting.

"Celia, Libby. Libby, Celia," Milo says.

Celia finally steps away from the car and approaches me. "Hi, Libby. It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, too, Celia," I say. "Are you ready for some serious shopping?"

She grins just like Milo. "Always."

"Great, 'cause I really need some help today. I've never actually bought a dress before. My mom always just picked them out for me," I say.

"Wow, Milo," Celia says, looking at her brother, "you weren't joking about her."

Milo nods and slings one arm around her shoulder. "I wouldn't lie to you about something as serious as shopping, Celia. I know it's practically your entire life."

She punches him lightly in the gut. "It's only about sixty percent of my life. The other forty percent belongs to boys."

"It better not."

"Whatever. Are you gonna get outta here, or what? Libby and I have work to do."

More at ease after his playful banter with Celia, Milo comes back to my side. His hand lightly presses against the small of my back. He leans close to me, and asks, "Are you sure you don't want me to tag along? This one can be a bit of a terror when it comes to dresses and shoes."

"I thought you didn't do dress shopping," I say.

"Only under extreme circumstances. This may qualify." His mouth is so tantalizingly close to my skin. It's heartbreaking not to have him move an inch or two closer and press his lips against my temple. I'm tempted to just close the distance myself.

Celia is too quick, though.

"Go, Milo. Go play your video games, or crawl around in your Jeep. Go do whatever it is nerds like you do and let us girls shop."

"Jeep?" I ask, turning to face Milo. "You're not going rock crawling without me are you?" I am instantly jealous that he would even consider leaving me behind. Out in the hills is the only place I get to see the real Milo. Out there he laughs and jokes, no sign whatsoever of the shuffling nobody he pretends to be at school. I don't want to miss that.

Smiling at the slight whine in my voice, Milo grabs my pouting chin. "No, I'm not taking the Jeep out without you. I'm going to play a little _Call of Duty_ with some friends from back home, and maybe do some research."

I don't even have to ask what he's going to research. Seekers. It's what we've spent all week doing. Without any luck whatsoever. The internet and library didn't hold a single clue. The Guardians are too careful for that. I know who I could have called. He would have known the answers, I'm sure. Lance's dad lets him in on what secrets and suspicions he can because he is so sure his son will follow in his footsteps. I wanted to call Lance, but I didn't. Even bringing up the option pissed Milo off.

He thought I was crazy given how Lance treats me at school. Maybe if I had told him about Lance watching me and him stopping Angus, he would have reconsidered, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him. If I did, I'm sure he would have heard the hope that Lance hasn't completely abandoned me in my voice. I've thought about calling Lance without telling Milo a million times this week. Every time I pick up my phone and try to dial my fingers seem to freeze up. Maybe that's for the best. If I'm wrong about Lance, my calling him will only make things worse.

I know more searching won't do Milo any good, but if he wants to do something that can only improve his study habits, I'm not going to stand in his way. "Well, have fun with all that," I say. "We'll see you in a little while."

His expression seems doubtful of my time estimate. Really, though, how hard can it be to find a dress?

"You girls have fun," Milo says. He walks over to his little sister, pulls her into a one armed hug and drops a kiss on the top of her head. "Celia, go easy on her, okay?"

She sniffs derisively and hugs him back. Then he walks over to me. I get a hug with both arms, and very nearly a kiss on the top of my head as well, but I think that might have been out of habit with his sister, because he stops before actually making contact. I'm not quick enough to suppress a sigh. I'm not sure how Milo interprets the sigh, but he pulls me closer for a few wonderful seconds. And when he does pull back his hand comes up to my cheek. My own hand reaches up to cover his hand, my eyes locking with his. Smiling as he trails his hand down my cheek, he turns his palm up to catch my hand.

My fingers brush against his diktats, and he freezes. Overwhelming curiosity, the kind that has gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, wells up inside of me. Milo seems to recognize it. His expression goes from startled to begging, pleading. His request is clear. Just leave it be. Don't ask me. Not right now. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from uttering my question. Breathing out in relief, his grip tightens on my hand before dropping. He'll tell me when he's ready. Whatever terror he suffered, Milo will share it with me when he's ready.

Or maybe Celia will tell me.

Hours, and hours, and hours later, I sling my newly purchased dress over an empty chair in the mall food court and plop into the chair across from Celia. My sesame chicken is steaming in front of me, its syrupy deliciousness making my stomach growl. Celia is already digging into her beef and broccoli. The promise of food is almost enough to make me forget my throbbing feet. At least this shopping trip went better than the last one. There were fewer glares and angry comments, probably due to the fact that I have done an excellent job of avoiding the media like the plague they are. Without my face plastered everywhere, fewer people react to me. The general population is a fickle creature. Thank goodness.

Taking a bite of sesame chicken, my hunger consumes me. We've been here forever. I like shopping as much as any girl, I suppose, but Celia is clearly the shopping champion. In four hours, we invaded twenty-three stores and tried on I don't even know how many dresses. It was shocking that there were even that many dresses to try on in one mall. I never knew it before, but there is a very good reason I don't go dress shopping. It's too hard.

Celia definitely came through for me. The dress is perfect. At least I think so.

"Do you really think Milo will like the dress?" I ask Celia.

"Definitely," she says between bites. "Probably too much, actually. You look really great in it."

"Thanks for coming with me. I really do appreciate it."

"I'm just glad I finally got to meet you. Milo's practically been a ghost lately. I had to meet the person who could keep him away from me so much." Despite the fact that I've practically commandeered her brother, there's no rancor in her voice at all.

"Sorry he hasn't been around. I really didn't mean to steal him from you like that," I say.

"No problem. I miss Milo when you guys are together, but it's worth it," she says. "I haven't seen him like this since before we moved."

My head tilts to one side in consideration. "Like what?"

"Happy," she replies seriously.

"He wasn't happy before?"

She shakes her head. "Not since we moved here. He's been a totally different person, sullen, angry, rebellious, nothing like he used to be. It really scared me for a while. I thought I was losing my big brother the way he and my parents fight constantly, or the way he acts and dresses, not to mention his general pissy attitude. He was never like that before."

"What was he like?" Milo never talks about his life before moving to Albuquerque.

Toying with her food, Celia stares at nothing. "He used to be Mom and Dad's golden boy. He did everything they asked, as long as it didn't interfere with friends or football."

I choke on a piece of chicken and splutter in disbelief. "Milo played football?"

"Yeah, quarterback. He never told you?" Then she shakes her head. "No, he wouldn't. He doesn't talk about it anymore, even though I think he really misses it. He was incredibly good, for someone without Speed and Strength anyway. You can't tell because of the stupid, ugly, baggy clothes he wears all the time now, but if you could see him without his shirt on, you'd see how fit he is. Not that I'm making any suggestions, or anything. Milo freaks out about me and boys so much he better be following his own advice on that front. He is, right?"

Her intent gaze makes me flush scarlet. I've never seen Milo with his shirt off, but I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I didn't know how muscular he is. I take every opportunity I can get to put my hands on him. Celia's gaze grows even more questioning in the face of my silence. Oh, crap.

"Milo is definitely following his own advice," I say quickly. "Don't worry about that."

Celia relaxes a bit and smiles. "He was right about you blushing. It is a good look on you."

"Milo said that?" I ask.

"Oh yeah," she laughs. "It's hard to get him to open up since we moved, but when he does talk, it's usually about you."

I stab at my sesame chicken without taking a bite. "That's surprising. Sometimes I think Milo likes me, but other times...I don't know. It's like he's afraid of getting too close to me, or he's not sure. He just goes back to shrugging and mumbling, and I feel like he just wants to be friends."

Celia's snort shakes her body once before settling into a round of muttering laughs.

"What?" I ask.

She shakes her head, still smiling. "Nothing."

"Nothing? That's all you've got?"

"Yep." She goes back to eating her broccoli and beef with another shake of her head.

I'm not really sure what to make of that. She and Milo must have some kind of deal not to interfere with each other's social lives. I don't see why it would hurt for her to clue me in about what her brother's thinking. Wouldn't that only help him? I wish I weren't an only child. Maybe I'd understand this apparent sibling secrecy thing. Knowing that getting Milo to be honest with me will undoubtedly take my figuring out what's keeping him at a distance in the first place makes me wonder what else Celia is willing to hide for him.

"Why did you guys move down to Albuquerque? Milo doesn't seem very happy about it, so why did your parents bring you guys here?" I ask.

Celia's fork trembles slightly. She drops it back to her plate to cover it. "It wasn't really a choice. We had to move. Milo knew that, but it didn't make it any easier."

"So, was it for a job?"

"No...there were, uh, family issues."

"Like what?" I push.

She squirms, and there's no hiding it this time. "Um, like the kind I'm not really allowed to talk about. Sorry, Libby. If Milo hasn't already told you...you'll have to ask him. I promised him I wouldn't talk about it with anyone."

So it was something to do with Milo specifically. I feel like I'm very close to figuring it out. "It has something to do with his diktats," I say. It's not really a question, because I wouldn't ask Celia to break her promise, but my musing sends a jolt through her.

"Wh-what do you mean?" she asks. Pale and barely controlling a tremor running through her hands, she stares at me with wide eyes.

"I...nothing. I just saw his diktats, and how they've been damaged. I wondered if they were part of the reason he keeps away from people."

Reaching across the table, Celia grabs my hand. Tighter than I would have expected, her grip turns my fingertips beet red. "Libby, you can't tell anyone about his diktats, okay?"

"Why not? I mean, I won't, but why? What happened?"

For a moment I think she'll tell me. She looks like she's about to explode. Clearly, keeping secrets isn't the easiest thing for her. She shakes her head. "No. I can't. You just have to leave it alone. If Milo tells you, that's different, but until then, please, Libby, don't say anything to anyone."

Frustration pulses against my temples, giving me an instant headache.

"Look, Libby, my parents moved us out here to protect Milo. If you stir things up, you'll ruin that. Please, just forget about it," she begs.

Faced with her intensity, I can't do anything but agree. "Sure, Celia. I don't want to make things worse. I want to protect Milo too. I won't bring it up again."

"Thank you," she sighs. She spears another piece of broccoli and raises it to her mouth. Her chewing is slow, uncertain, as if she's waiting to see if I really will leave the topic of Milo's diktats alone. She tries to act normally, but I can see the tremor in her hand that talking about it has caused. I pick at my own food and wait for her to get herself back under control.

Maybe Celia is right about Milo's diktats. I have enough crap to deal with anyway, right? If he doesn't want to tell me the story behind his screwed up Inquest, then I need to drop it. Whatever it is, it can't be nearly as bad as Guardians and Seekers trying to kill me. Right?

"So, are we ready to go?" I ask after we've both cleared our plates.

"We got the dress, shoes, hot rollers..." I shiver at the mention. "...jewelry, makeup. That should be all of it. We made pretty good time, too," Celia says.

"We've been here for five hours."

She grins. "Exactly."

Celia spends the walk back through the mall giving me tips on getting ready for the dance next weekend. I'm paying close attention to what she's saying until we step outside. Deep, thrumming hatred sizzles against my skin. Somehow I keep walking. Clamping down my own emotions, I push my Perception out around me like I have done so many times before, searching for the source.

Make that sources. Six of them. All around me, closing in on us in a balanced elliptical. I don't even need Concealment to point them out to me. They aren't trying to hide their presence. If they were they wouldn't be walking against the traffic. Everyone else is heading either to the parking lot or to the mall. But these six, bulky men are the only ones cutting straight across the packed parking lot. Directly toward me.

Lazaro just claimed the opportunity he was waiting for.

I have the sudden, irrational urge to have Lance by my side. It's purely for his skill. Not only have I been forced to watch him every day since my Inquest showing off his ridiculous talent in class, with no shirt on to boot, but I grew up with him. I was careful to never show him my real Speed and Strength, but we loved sparring with each other. We fight together better than anyone else I've ever met. I swallow nervously. Six Guardians. My talents are unlocked now. I should be able to take them, no problem. I think.

A stocky guy in a polo shirt is moving slightly faster than the others, making a beeline for me and Celia.

Celia. Panic tries to fight its way into my mind, but I refuse to give it any purchase. They aren't here for her. If I can get her in the car, she'll be fine. We're still a good hundred yards from the Bronco, though. Before I can even start forming a plan, I need to know who these guys are, Seekers or Guardians. I know almost nothing about Seekers, but somehow coming after me in a parking lot in the middle of the day with hundreds of potential witnesses doesn't seem to fit their general secretive nature.

They'd come for me at night, not stalking down the asphalt like tigers in pursuit of their next meal. A guy dressed in a too-big sports jersey has a deliciously gleeful expression on his pocked face that doesn't seem to fit with being a Seeker either. Guardians then. At least they don't have Vision. That would make things twice as hard. At least.

The fact that I have Speed and Strength to match theirs, as well as Vision, not to mention the other four talents, should give me a sporting chance against the six Guardians closing in on me. I'm not actually planning to fight them unless I absolutely have to, but it takes down my anxiety a bit to know I might not die in the next two minutes. I doubt any of my attackers believe that, though. Confidence swarms out from every one of them. Unless they're morons, they all know I have all seven talents, but most likely they all think that I have only gained access to them recently. They'll expect me to be fast and strong, but clumsy and ungainly, easy to take down.

Stupid Guardians.

A spiteful laugh bubbles through my clenched teeth. That's when I realize that Celia isn't talking anymore. The effort it takes to put a smile on my face is surprisingly small. I loop my arm in hers and pull her closer to me.

"Hey, Celia, you wouldn't happen to know how to drive, would you?" I ask casually.

"Sure," she says with a shrug that's identical to her brother's. "Milo's been teaching me to drive the Jeep out in the hills and I've been driving dune buggies for years."

That was actually exactly what I figured she would say. "Do you think you could back the Bronco out on your own?"

She hesitates for just a second. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good." I tug my keys out of my pocket and hand them to her.

"Are they Guardians or Seekers?" she asks.

My eyebrows lift in mild surprise. She is very attentive. And amazingly calm. It's almost like she's been through this before. But that is a topic for later. "I think they're Guardians."

"Thank goodness. I was afraid they were Seekers," Celia says.

Milo has told her more about me than I expected. She says it so calmly, too. "What I want you to do is get in the Bronco and start backing out. Hopefully I'll be ready to jump in by the time you get into the aisle. Be ready to move over, okay?"

"No problem."

We're twenty feet away from the car, now, and the Guardians are another ten feet from us. Shutting my Perception down, I open myself up to Vision. Seeing the things others cannot encompasses a whole host of uses, but in my opinion none more than glimpsing the future. I'm hardly as strong a Visionary as I am a Perceptionist, but all I need to see are the next few minutes. I just have to hope this is one of the times it actually works.

My vision blurs and the hulking figures closing in on us advance in a split second. Hardly inventive, they're going to come straight at me in a pack as soon as Celia is in the car. Polo Guy will get to me first. He's a lefty. Pocked Face and the Asian guy next to him will strike next. By then Celia will have the Bronco backed into the aisle. My eyelids flutter and I lose the glimpse before seeing the others.

Five feet to the car.

I transfer my bags to Celia's arms and help her settle them in the back. She climbs into the driver's seat looking outwardly calm. Only I can see her fingers twitching.

"I'll see you later, then. Call me tonight if you want to see a movie, or something."

Celia offers her own bubble reply, closes the door and starts pulling out smoothly. She gets halfway out of the spot before I sense Polo Guy's presence. I drop into a tuck and feel the wind of his arms swooping over my head. Missing like that would have unbalanced most people, but the Strength in his front leg alone is enough to keep him from tipping forward.

Until my leg sweeps out faster than he can react. His head cracks audibly against the pavement and rebounds for another hit. Looking away from his glazed eyes, I spring back up with my arms crossed in front of my chest, only to throw them away from me as I reach full height. The sides of my hands plow into Pocked Face and Asian Man before they can react with their own undoubtedly fine-tuned Speed. I can feel their vertebrae quiver under the force.

Both men drop bonelessly.

The other three are only steps away. From behind the truck I can see Celia's head jump over to the passenger's seat. I dash to the Bronco and slide in before the two men I knocked out hit the ground. Rubber burns as I jam the gas pedal down. We're turning a corner way too sharply before I look back and realize they aren't following us. Not with Celia in the car with me. My speed drops only enough to let me pull onto the main road without rolling.

Only seconds passed between putting Celia in the cab and jumping in myself, but I feel as if I have just run a dozen marathons. Celia, though, is texting away on her cell phone.

"What are you doing? You're not telling Milo about that are you?" I ask. It's shocking how shaky my voice is.

Celia sends her message and flips her phone closed. "Tell Milo? Are you kidding me? If he finds out about those Guardians, he'll be glued to your side thinking he can protect you somehow. I'd really never see him then, and as great as I think Milo is, he's obviously no match for those guys."

She understands. I don't know why Milo can't see the truth as easily. "What were you doing then?"

"Just texting Milo that we're heading back to the motel. He wanted to know when we were done so we could meet back up. I told you, he only leaves your side to avoid dress shopping and to sleep." Her phone chimes with what I suspect is an answer from Milo. Celia checks it and sinks into her seat. "He's on his way."

I feel as relieved as Celia looks. Whether Milo can protect me in some way or not, I feel safer with him near me. Very near me. My speed picks back up with the promise of Milo's arms slipping around me.

"You handled that really well, Celia. I was worried you were going to freak out," I say.

She leans her head back, and says, "Yeah, well, you get used to it after a while."

"What?"

Celia cringes. "I...never mind."

My fingers grip the steering wheel harder than necessary. Eventually somebody is going to tell me what drove them from their home in Ohio to the Southwestern desert.

Chapter 16

Demands

Milo is waiting for us when we reach the motel. Sitting on the hood of his Corolla with his arms crossed over his chest, his stance perks up when we pull into the parking lot. He's on his feet and at my door before I shift into park. As he pulls my door open I have to keep myself from simply collapsing into his arms. Instead I hop down daintily and wait for him to offer me a place against his chest. I don't have to wait very long.

It feels so good to press my body against his after the day I've had. Warm, strong, gentle, he holds me tightly, one of his hands drifting up to wind into the hair at the nape of my neck. I pull against him even tighter. Only the sound of Celia folding the seat down to get to our bags in the back reminds me of her presence. Apparently it reminds Milo too. He pulls back slowly, but lets his hands slide down to my hips instead of dropping away completely. Our eyes hold each other and I'm positive he can see my chest pulsing in and out more quickly than it should. Maybe I should care about that, but I just don't. The corner of his mouth twitches and starts to turn up.

"I'm thrilled to see you two getting all gooey over each other," Celia says loudly, "but would someone mind opening the door so I can put this stuff down?"

I can't respond right away. Milo pulls back and snatches the keys from my hand. He wanders over to help his sister as if I'm forgotten. I watch him unlock the door for Celia before I can move away from the car. He waits for me at the door, giving me a little shove into the dim room.

"So, do I get to see the dress?" Milo asks.

Celia and I answer at the same time. "No."

"Fine," he drawls. "Did you two have fun? There weren't any problems, were there?"

We both hesitate. "It was fine," I say on top of Celia saying, "No, uh, no problems at all."

It sounds like she's trying to avoid answering questions about Milo again. And if I recognize that, Milo won't miss it either. We look at each other and I see the apology in her eyes.

"What happened?" Milo demands.

Neither of us answers.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice growing louder. He knows I can hold out the longest, so he turns to his sister. "Celia?"

The poor girl looks like she's about to burst. She tries so hard to keep secrets, but it obviously just isn't her strongest point. Even though I wanted very badly to know what she wouldn't tell me about Milo today, I wouldn't have wanted to be the reason she broke a promise to her brother. I don't want to be the reason she breaks a promise now, either.

I sit down on the bed, drawing Milo's attention away from Celia. He looks at me expectantly. "Well?"

"Guardians came after me in the parking lot when we were leaving."

It looks like he's moving in slow motion. His hands clench. His jaw clamps down, making the veins in his neck bulge. Furious red spreads through his skin, shocking me with its intensity. It's the most reaction I've ever seen out of him.

"President Howe told them to leave you alone. Were they Lazaro's men?" Milo asks through his teeth.

I shake my head. "I can't say for sure, but it seems likely. I didn't exactly stop to ask them where their allegiances lie."

He growls angrily. "Tell me what happened."

"As soon as we came out of the mall they started closing in on me." My voice is surprisingly calm. It's really just more of what I've been dealing with my whole life, I guess.

"How did they find you? We've been watching so closely for spies."

I shake my head. "I don't know, Milo. I'm not exactly hiding by going to the mall. There are Guardians there all the time for security. One of them must have called it in."

Unclenching his hands, he runs them through his hair in frustration. "What else?"

"There were six of them."

Milo hisses through his teeth.

"They tried to come at me all at once, but a few eager beavers rushed in first," I say.

"Giving you the chance to take the first ones out before the others got there," he finishes. "Celia, were you hurt at all?"

"Nope," she says cheerfully, "I was driving the Bronco."

He starts to object, but my own expression stops him. "Don't you dare," I say.

"She told you about driving in the hills, didn't she?"

I nod. "They weren't there for Celia, so I got her in the car as fast as I could. By the time she'd backed out, I had the first three down. The others were far enough back that I was able to get to the Bronco before they reached me."

Celia bounces over to her brother. "You should have seen her, Milo. It was awesome. Scary, but very cool. She kicked the first guy's leg out from under him so fast I didn't even see her move. Then with the next two," she says, pausing to mimic the crisscross motion I had used, "she whacked them in the neck, and they dropped like jellyfish."

Milo waits as patiently as he can through Celia's description. He obviously doesn't share in her fascination. "The three you took down, were they still alive?" he asks. The question is cold and brutal. His tone makes me shiver.

So does the memory of the first guy's head slamming into the pavement. Not to mention the other two's necks. "I...I don't know. They're Guardians, so they have Strength, but even that can only do so much."

My words have little effect on Milo's already tense demeanor. Celia, however, loses all her excitement. "You think they might be dead? I...I didn't even..." She lowers herself back down to the bed. "Are the police going to come after us? What are we going to do?"

"There won't be any police, Celia, calm down," Milo says irritably.

"H-how can you be sure?" she begs.

Milo's eyes fly to his sister's. "We've been through this before, Celia," he snaps. "Guardians never leave their own to be found by police. They take care of bodies themselves. That'll be especially true when it comes to Libby. They weren't supposed to touch her yet."

Neither of them reacts to his first sentence, but I am rocked by it. They have been through dead Guardians before?

"Anything else?" Milo asks.

I shake my head weakly. At least Lazaro's men failed. Maybe losing a few of his loyal drones will put his scheming on hold for a while.

His feet carry him back and forth across the room three times before he stops and faces me. Every step is brusque and measured. He's taking command. The realization shocks me. Where did this alternate Milo come from? The Milo I know enjoys antagonizing Lance and his teachers, but couldn't care less about what's happening around him. Milo turns on his heel and faces me, his expression completely focused.

"Okay. This is what we're going to do. You should be safe enough at school, but I'm walking you to every one of your classes from now on. After school, we're training. Nights are a problem. I may be able to stay at least a couple of nights during the week, me disappearing is nothing new, but the other nights..."

I'm up off the bed doing my best to get in his face before he can finish despite our height difference. "Training? What are you talking about? I train all day at school. I don't need more of that."

"No," Milo says, staring down at me, "you don't train at school. You pretend you have no talents at all. You're getting nothing out of those classes, Libby. Lazaro has already made one attempt on your life, and he'll undoubtedly make more, if Howe doesn't kill him for this. But even if he doesn't, Howe plans on killing you on your eighteenth birthday, something you still have no plan to get out of."

"No plan? I'll change people's minds, or I'll disappear. Maybe I'll just get rid of all the Guardians. Then they won't kill me."

"Plan A isn't going to work and you know it. Disappearing is a pretty dismal option, too. The Guardians will get every Seeker and Concealer in the world to hunt you down. Going up against the Guardians is by far your best option, but it only proves my point. In order to fight, you need to be trained. You have to be ready for anything. And you can't do that tripping over things and goofing off at school!"

"You're going to lecture me about not taking school seriously? You sleep through class! I get more out of school than you do, Milo," I snap.

He barks out a laugh that shocks me back a step. "The only class I don't have an A in is Perception. What's your GPA going to be like at the end of the semester?"

I glance over at Celia for some kind of support, but all she does is shrug. "It's true."

I don't even know how that's possible. "Well," I splutter, "what do you expect me to do? Pass all my classes with flying colors and prove to everyone what a freak I really am?"

"Of course not, Libby, but I expect you to make up for it. We're training after school, and that's the end of it. Don't argue with me about this. You know I'll win," he says.

That's a bold statement. I don't think I like this new Milo very much. "I'll argue about this all I want, Milo. I've been preparing for crap like this my whole life. I don't need this from you right now. I can handle things."

"So you beat up a few Guardians, big deal. It's not the first time that's happened. What are you going to do against Seekers, killers who can see your moves before you even make them? How are you going to survive that, Libby?"

"I...I'll use my other talents to tip the scales. I'll beat them," I argue.

"How?" he asks, stepping closer to me.

"I'll use...I'll just." My brain isn't working. Not with Milo glaring overhead. Curse him for standing so close to me.

He pushes me even closer to the edge by suddenly softening and bringing his hand up to my cheek. "You don't know what you'll do. You don't know how to kill a Seeker."

"Do you?" I ask. Most of my anger has faded from my voice now, despite my wishes.

"I have some ideas. Ideas we're going to explore, okay?"

Bucking against his subduing presence, I shake my head.

"Libby," Milo growls lightly, "please stop arguing. I don't want you getting hurt."

Oh, crap. He's right. He is going to win this fight. How am I supposed to refuse him when he asks like that? My body softens and leans against him. It is answer enough for Milo. I'm wrapped in his warmth, and for a few seconds I have no doubts about his feelings for me.

"Thank you," he says. It's a simple phrase, but the eager edge to his words slips through and makes me wonder why he wants me to start training so much. "Thank you for protecting Celia today, too. I would never forgive myself if something happened to her."

"I won't let anything happen to Celia," I promise. A little piece of his earlier demands comes drifting back into my mind. "Just so you know, you're not spending the night here."

"Oh really?"

I duck my head into his chest to cover my traitorous smile. I would love to have him stay. I can't afford that kind of distraction right now. It's hard to remember that with Milo holding me, but I say, "You're not staying."

Rubbing his hands back and forth across my back, he steals more of my resolve. "Libby, I know you don't think I can protect you, but I can. You don't know what I can do. Let me protect you."

I can't resist the gentle tone of his voice. My head comes off his chest and I catch his gaze right away. He hides from me so often. The precious few moments he really lets me in are amazing. All I can do is breathe, and even that's not coming too easily at the moment. My skin is very nearly vibrating with desire to always be near him. I don't even care if it's leaking through my emotional shield. I want him to know how much I care about him, how crushed I would be if I lost him.

One, two, then three breathless seconds pass before his head tilts down. Thought abandons me all together. I'm not even sure if I'm breathing anymore. His lips touching mine are the only thing I care about. I want to reach up to him, but I'm afraid of pushing him away. I can feel his breath washing over my skin, and then he turns away muttering about his sister being here.

I had completely forgotten about her. Again.

"Don't let me stop you," Celia says happily. "I don't mind."

"I do," Milo says.

She rolls her eyes and glides across the carpet to punch her brother in the arm. "You're such a dork, Milo."

He swats her leg before she can get away. "Get in the car, you little twit."

"You're kicking me out? That means you'll have to leave Libby alone. You're not going to abandon her are you? What will she ever do without you?" Celia drawls.

"Get in the car."

She folds her arms and takes on a positively adorable stance that I think she means to be hostile. "No."

"I'm not kicking you out, Celia."

"Then why do I have to get in the car?"

Grabbing her shoulders, he turns her toward the door and gives her a little push. "Because it's dinner time and I'm taking you two out to eat. Now go."

"Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?" she says. "Let's go."

She bounds out the door like a little bunny. Milo shakes his head at her, but he's smiling when he turns back to me. When his fingers reach out for mine I take them without hesitation. Our hands slide together perfectly. "You too," Milo says. "Let's go. I'm taking both of my girls to dinner."

His girls. I really like the sound of that.

Chapter 17

Disturbance

Hot rollers shouldn't make people cry. People, what a laugh. I'm the only person in the world that cries at the sight of hot rollers. All I have managed to do so far is plug them in. As soon as the little red indicator light turned on, I burst into tears. Worked more than they have been in maybe —thanks to Milo's new training regimen—my muscles protest being curled up in a ball as I sit on top of the toilet. Tears splash down on my bare knees. My fingers fumble to grab my phone off the counter. Celia's number flashes across the screen and it's ringing a second later.

"Hey, Libby," she answers happily.

"Celia, I can't do this."

Her sigh whispers across the line. After spending most of the week together, plus everything Milo has already told her about me, she doesn't even have to ask what I'm talking about. "Yes, you can, Libby."

"I'm sitting in my bathroom crying my eyes out. I can't do it. I can't curl my hair."

"I think you'll feel better once you just do it. Whatever it is that's holding you back, it's time to move on," Celia says.

I shudder out a painful breath. Move on. I don't know if that's possible. "Celia, you just don't understand," I begin.

"Well, of course I don't," she interrupts, "because you won't tell me!"

And I'm not going to. My silence reinforces that.

"Do you know where I am right now?" she asks.

"No." I wish she and Milo were both here with me.

"I am sitting in a chair at the barber's watching Milo get his shaggy mop cut off."

My chest tightens with excitement and guilt. "He's really doing it? How does it look?"

Celia snorts. "It's looks terrible," she says, "but that's only because they just started."

I can't wait to see him with short hair. I've spent the last two weeks trying to imagine it.

"Libby," Celia says softly, "I've begged him, and my parents have threatened him to cut his hair. He didn't care. Nothing we said to him mattered. He's doing this for you because you asked him to, and because he wants to see you overcome whatever this thing is with your hair. Nobody else could push him to change like you have. And that's saying a lot since I'm here, too. We both know how much he loves me."

I laugh at her blatant confidence in her brother's love. Most girls her age are embarrassed by their families and do everything they can to pretend they don't exist. Not Celia. She is happy to tell anyone who'll listen how much Milo means to her.

"Libby, do you want to go to the dance with Milo tonight?"

"Yes," I say quickly.

"Then you have to curl your hair."

"I know." Faced with the choice of holding onto my familiar pain a little longer, and hurting Milo and missing the dance, my resolves begins to sharpen.

"He bought a suit," Celia adds, her singsong voice trying to entice me even more. "I saw him try it on last night. You're going to like it. He hasn't worn a suit in a long time, Libby."

A suit. No more baggy clothes that hide his body.

"And if it makes you feel any better," Celia says, "Milo isn't having much fun either." I can hear Milo growl in the background. Celia laughs. "I can't decide whether he's going to break the arms of the chair off with how tight he's gripping them, or just throw up on the barber. I'm leaning toward breaking the chair, but it's a close call."

"Shut up, Celia," Milo's muffled voice rumbles.

We both laugh, though I can certainly sympathize with him.

"Libby, you can do this," Celia says.

I close my eyes, and say, "I can do this."

"Send me a pic when you're ready. I promise not to show Milo."

"Hey," Milo argues.

"He's delusional," Celia says. "Good luck, Libby. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Celia."

I set the phone back down and flip open the lid of the hot rollers. The light has flicked off, letting me know they are hot enough to use now. It's been more than five years. Five long years since I've seen my hair in any other style than plain and straight. I have missed the twisted bounce of dozens of ringlets tickling my neck. I have missed twirling the curls around my fingers. More than anything, I've missed twirling _his_ curls around my fingers. A hiccup of wrenching pain escapes me. I yank a curler out of the box, burning my fingers, and spin it into my hair before I think better of it. One after another, I roll and pin each one in place. My fingertips sting and my eyes are bleary by the time I finish. But I do it.

When the tray is empty my head feels like it's ten pounds heavier, but I've finally done it.

I brush my teeth and put on my makeup in a state of shocked disbelief. Somehow I remember everything Celia told me to do with the new makeup. The eye shadow is more sparkly than what I usually wear. It looks like I am dusting my lids with crushed diamonds. They almost seem to glow next to my dark eyebrows. I can barely see the blush when I put it on, but somehow it brightens my whole face. I apply the lip stain more carefully than I usually would, given that it won't come off for hours once it's on. I press my finger to my berry tinted lips experimentally and am surprised to find out Celia was right about it not smearing off.

Remembering her reason for choosing the lipstick deepens the blush in my cheeks. She wouldn't mind seeing a few lipstick prints on her brother, but she knew that if her parents saw them, they'd start asking questions. My whole face flushes as I try not to think about all the places I would like to leave lipstick on Milo's skin.

Done with my makeup, I take a deep breath and slip my dress off the hanger. Its silky grey color is a perfect match for Milo's eyes. It glides on like a rain cloud, brushing its cool wisps against my skin and making me shiver. The neckline plunges down more deeply than my usual t-shirts, but not low enough to show too much. The back, however, leaves my skin bare most of the way down my spine. The fabric presses against me tightly from my chest to my hips, where it loosens and drifts down to my toes like a hovering mist. My strappy black heels complete the look.

Now all I have left to do is take out the curlers.

Panic bites at me, but I refuse to let it take over again. The click of my heels against the tiled bathroom floor is the only sound in the room. My fingers fumble the first curler and it goes spinning out of my hair and clattering to the floor. I leave it. My eyes are glued to the loose ringlet quivering against my face. I watch it until it settles, as if it might spring into life and strangle me at any moment. A full minute passes before I can touch the next curler and gently remove it. The process takes twice as long as putting them in, but the results are worth the wait. A halo of curls frames my face, and I gasp.

I have to blink rapidly to keep a fresh batch of tears from ruining my makeup. My dad would love it if he could see me tonight. He would crinkle his nose and tell me to shake my head until my curls were as wild as his. I would laugh and giggle and throw myself into his arms. He would love it.

I think Milo will too.

A while later, his knock sounds at the door. It seems to take forever to walk across the small room to the door. Never was I this nervous to open the door for Lance. I was always excited, sure, but I am positively trembling now. Although if it were Lance on the other side of the door tonight, I don't know that I could even open it. He knows why I refused to curl my hair—well, some of it. He would know exactly how big of a deal this was for me.

My hand touches the door knob, and I have to pause and take a deep breath. It doesn't work. Taking a different approach, I tap my Naturalism and calm my quivering body. The butterflies banging around in my stomach don't lessen in the least, but my hand does stop shaking. I turn the handle and pull the door open slowly.

And...oh my.

His hair is the first thing I notice. Cropped short on the sides so I can see his ears—they're adorable—but still long enough on top to be swept up in a loose riot. I guess he couldn't part with all the shagginess. I would be a fool to want him to. He looks amazing. Forcing my eyes away from his hair, I'm eager to take in this new suit of his. Celia was right. I think Milo should have to wear suits every day. His midnight blue shirt is actually fitted. For the first time I can really see his waistline. The black suit and grey tie he's wearing set off his newly revealed physique even more. Shoulders, Milo actually has shoulders. My eyes travel down the length of him and back up.

I should say something, stop staring at him like a mackerel, but all that comes out is a strangled, "Wow."

Milo's hand moves up to his head self-consciously. "That's what my parents said, too."

"Well," I say, "you look incredible."

"You think so? I feel really weird. My hair's gone, my clothes feel too tight. I feel like everyone is looking at me even when there's no one around," he says.

My hands glide around his waist and pull him close to me. "I hate to break it to you, Milo, but everyone is definitely going to be looking at you tonight."

He shakes his head. "No, they won't. Not with you there. I'm just background compared to you. You look beautiful, Libby." He pushes me back just far enough so he can see my dress. "I'll have to tell Celia she was wrong about the dress, though."

"What did she say?" I ask.

"That you looked hot in it," he says with all sincerity.

I don't take him serious for a minute. "And you don't agree?" My tone is teasing, and wins me a devilish grin from him.

"No, I don't. You don't look hot, you look gorgeous."

I smile and pull back against him. "Thanks."

"And, Libby?" he says as his hands stray to my hair. "I love your curls. They're even better than the dress."

If I speak I might start crying again, so I just hug him even more tightly. We stay locked in each other's arms for several minutes before Milo pulls back. "We better go if we want to make our reservations."

For a moment, I honestly have to consider whether or not I actually want to make our dinner reservations. Staying here with Milo, alone, that sounds a lot more appetizing. I can only see his chest so well with his suit coat on. And I'd love to run my fingers through his hair. My eyes drift up to his curls. I catch Milo staring at me, the same expression I'm sure I have on my own face playing on his. I blush and wonder if he's thinking the same thing I am.

"Yeah," he says, "we better go. Now."

"Good idea."

Dinner rushes by without stopping. It's over before I can even catch my breath. I'm sure the food was delicious, but my mind was too captivated with watching Milo that I barely even tasted anything. I think he might have been having the same problem. The only thing I really notice is that we're the only high school aged couple in the restaurant. Odd, given the occasion, but then I realize that Milo must have picked this place specifically to avoid having to eat around the people neither one of us really want to see.

We hardly talk at all as we drive to the school. The parking lot is filled when we arrive, with a few straggling news vans parked outside the gates. We slip by unnoticed and pull into the parking lot. By the looks of it, the entire school has shown up. I spot Lance's car halfway down the first aisle. Great. Isn't there a football game or something he should be at? If Milo notices, he doesn't give any indication of it. Not that it matters. We'll run into him soon enough, I'm sure.

And we still have one more week before Christmas break starts. If this blows up in my face, I'll have to suffer through everyone's horrified stares for a whole week before getting to hide from them. Suddenly this whole endeavor seems like a really bad idea, especially when I spot a reporter climbing out of his news van. Waiting, I'm sure, to pounce on me despite Principal Andrew's stringent ban on media at the school. It's about the only helpful thing she's done for me since my Inquest.

Milo pulls into an empty space, and asks, "Ready?"

"No."

I'd appreciate it if he would look even a little nervous, but he has switched back into an emotionless fog. His face is completely relaxed, as he says, "Come on, let's go."

He's out of the car before I can object. When he opens my door and offers me his hand, I can't seem to tell him no. He helps me out, and we walk across the parking lot with the faint sound of the band floating on the air around us. As we reach the doors, we both stop. This was all Milo's idea from the start, but he hesitates at the door. My hope rises that maybe he'll just take me home. It crashes down to my toes a second later when he pulls the door open.

Music blares around us. People are swarming around the room, dancing, eating, and talking—well, screaming—over the music, and in general paying no attention to us at all. Okay, maybe this won't be as bad as I thought. I spot Guardians ringing the room a second later and feel my heart try to jump out of my body.

"There are too many witnesses for them to try something," Milo reminds me. "They're probably here to protect everyone from you, anyway."

"Thanks," I say drily.

Milo ignores my sarcasm and pulls me in close behind him so we can squeeze between people. We start making his way through the crowd toward the tables, but I keep my eye on the Guardians. Their eyes follow me as well, but none of them make a move toward me. I try to put them out of my mind for the time being and keep a hold on Milo.

I can almost see a break in the sea of teenagers when I hear his voice.

"Milo? What the hell are you doing here?" Lance demands.

The sound of his voice ratchets up my paranoia again. Will the Guardians do anything if Lance comes after me again?

I would have been happy staying behind Milo's back for this, but he moves to the side so everyone can see me, and says, "I'm here with my date. What do you care?"

Something incredibly rude and childish should have popped out of Lance's mouth after what Milo just said, but he only blinks. At me.

"Libby?" he asks.

I hate him. I detest him. That's what I tell myself, but the anguish in his face and voice strikes me deeply. I don't understand why he's so upset about seeing me with Milo. We pretty much spend every spare minute together at school where everyone can see us. He takes a step forward, but Milo blocks him. I'm fine with that until Lance gestures at my hair. And then I understand. This doesn't have anything to do with Guardian plots.

My death grip on Milo loosens. He looks down at me in concern. I squeeze his hand lightly before letting go and stepping closer to Lance.

"You curled your hair," Lance says, his voice grating and sad.

I nod.

"But you never curl your hair. You said you'd never curl it again," he says. "Why?"

"Because he asked me to," I say.

Lance frowns and grabs my hand. He pulls me closer so only I can hear his words. I'm too shocked to pull back like I should. Even with his grip being tight and angry, Lance holding my hand feels so familiar it makes my heart ache. I have a hard time meeting his eyes. When I do, the frustration in them startles me.

"I asked you. I asked you dozens of times to curl you hair. Why did you do it for him and not me? You've only known Milo for a couple months. I love you, Libby. Why didn't you ever do this for me?"

_I love you, Libby_. His words echo around in my head. I want to believe him so badly. Long before Lance was my boyfriend, he was my best friend. We have loved each other our whole lives in one way or another. He couldn't really have forgotten that so easily, could he? I know I haven't no matter how much I wish I could.

I feel my feet take a step closer to him. Maybe if we actually sat down and talked about what happened, I could figure out what has been real and what hasn't with him. The force of Milo's anger bursting out of his careful shield makes me hesitate.

Testing Lance's reaction, I say, "You _loved_ me, Lance. Past tense. And before...I'm not even sure about that anymore."

Lance's eyes widen. "You're doubting that I ever loved you?"

How can I not? "If you really loved me before my Inquest, you wouldn't have turned on me afterward. Maybe I knew deep down what you would do all along. Maybe that's why I'm willing to break my own rules for Milo when I wasn't for you."

"You know that's not true," he says. The pleading in his voice kills me. "I never..."

When he doesn't continue, I can't stop myself from asking. "You never what?"

Lance's eyes dart around to his friends who are all now watching him with great interest. Under their gazes, his stance hardens. Frustration ten times worse than before saturates the air around him. "I never wanted things to happen the way they did."

That wasn't what he was going to say a second ago. I know him too well not to see that he's hedging. The people surrounding him are the reason for it. He won't be honest with me because too many influential eyes are watching him. I can feel my anger being renewed despite the begging expression he's wearing. I pull my hand out of his grip and shake my head at him.

"If you didn't want everything to happen like it has, then you shouldn't have let it. You're the biggest reason the whole school hates me. If not for you, they would have forgotten about me after the initial Guardian blow-up."

"That's not fair, Libby. I can't help how things are now," Lance argues.

My hand finds the pucker of scarred flesh on my neck. He knows what I feel. His eyes darken and cringe. "Don't talk to me about fair, Lance," I say in anger.

I turn away in disgust. Lance grabs my arm, his Strength making it impossible to get away from him without ruining all my hard work. I can feel Milo bristle next to me. He's seconds away from punching Lance in the face regardless of the consequences. Coming here wasn't just a bad idea, it was a disastrous one.

"Lance," I say through my teeth, "get your hand off of me, right now."

"You can't just walk away from me like this, Libby," he says.

I frown, feeling hot tears building behind my eyelids. "You walked away from me, remember? Right after you tried to slit my throat."

His hand slips from my arm as his guilt forces him back a step. Milo takes me under his arm and leads me away. I don't let myself look back. Nobody else is brave enough to speak to us before we reach the dance floor. They leave a pretty wide circle around us, actually. As always, Milo knows exactly what to do to make me feel better. He presses me up against his chest, and we start swaying to the music.

Every ounce of my focus goes to quelling the tears I refuse to let fall. How could I think even for a moment of forgiving Lance? The answer that pops up inside my head scares me. I considered it because I want to forgive Lance. I miss him. I miss my best friend. But how can I ever trust him again when he won't be honest with me just because a few jocks with powerful daddies are listening in? I wanted him so badly to say, I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry. But he didn't. He wouldn't.

"Are you okay?" Milo asks.

"I hate him."

His chest rumbles against mine as he laughs. "Good for you," he says.

I look back up at him. "Really?"

"What?" he asks. "Did you expect me to tell you that you should forgive him? He's your ex-boyfriend, Libby. I don't want to see you get back together with him. In fact, I was kind of hoping..."

A crash from across the room cuts through the music. Everyone on the dance floor turns toward the sound. Nobody's dancing anymore. My feet refuse to keep moving as well. Several chairs lay overturned at Lance and Angus's feet. I have no idea what started their argument, but the hideous expressions on their faces are steeped in barely controlled rage. As everyone else sees the cause of the disturbance their glares fasten on me as they take several steps in whatever direction will get them further away from me. The Guardians visibly tense, but for once I'm not the focus of their attention.

With a frustrated snap of my head, I turn away from gawkers and Guardians alike and look back at Lance and Angus. Whatever happened between them, it isn't over yet. It's just getting started.

I can only hear bits and pieces of their yelling match over the music, but I'm sure I hear my name several times. So does everyone else. I start to worry that someone other than the Guardians might take a stab at me. Virtually helpless because of my deal with Howe, I press against Milo more tightly.

Angus points an accusing finger at Lance during an exceptionally nasty remark, which Lance promptly slaps away. Lance has always been the strongest. Angus's arm flies backward, wrenching his arm painfully. Grimacing, but refusing to let his pain show, Angus grabs Lance's shirt and yanks him close to his face. To everyone else, Lance looks outwardly calm, like his so-called friend's harassment doesn't bother him in the least.

I know better. Lance's expressionless mask is a defense mechanism. He only ever pulls it out when he's close to his breaking point. Maybe I should do something, since I'm almost sure this fight has something to do with me, but all I can do is stand there and stare.

Faint whispers float by my ears. People are wondering if this has something to do with Guardians choosing sides. Some say Lance is with Howe, others say Lazaro because of what he did to me. It's pretty much unanimous that Angus is on Lazaro's side, which provokes more whispers, guesses about why two Lazaro followers would be fighting. More than once I hear someone ask if the Guardians in the room are going to put a stop to this. I wonder, too. Maybe they are waiting to see if I do anything before they step in.

I know I'm stronger than Angus, better than him in pretty much every way, but when his furious gaze suddenly shifts from Lance to me, I shiver. The area around me suddenly gets even emptier. Angus stares at me with hatred in his eyes. It is pure and about to boil over. The faint idea that he might come after me flitters around in my head but disappears suddenly when he thrusts Lance back from him and walks away. Lance isn't so lucky. He stumbles over a fallen chair hard, and rolls unceremoniously to the ground. He's back up a second later, but not without a trickle of blood running down his chin. His eyes fall on me as well, glaring and hard.

Destroyer or not, I press my back into Milo and will his warmth to surround me. It doesn't work. Finally, Lance breaks eye contact with me and stalks out of the gym. All eyes turn to glare at me accusingly. I don't feel like dancing anymore. Milo seems to read my mind.

"Do you want to leave?"

I nod, not trusting my voice right now. Milo wraps his arm around my shoulder and guides me from the dance floor. We reach the doors to the parking lot without anyone coming within ten feet of us. They all know I was the source of the disturbance a few minutes ago. No one wants to get tangled up with that. Fine by me. Milo pulls open the door and we're greeted by a blast of snow. Startled, I jump out of the freezing wind in surprise.

"Wow, it's really coming down out there," Milo says. He looks over at me with my arms wrapped around my body as they try to keep the cold away. "Wait here. I'll go get the car."

"Thanks."

He almost leaves before reconsidering. "What about the Guardians? I don't want to leave you alone. Maybe you should just come with me."

I shake my head. We parked at the back of the parking lot. I'd rather take my chances with the Guardians after the night I've had than risk turning into an icicle. Trashing a few Guardians could be exactly what I need right now. "No witnesses can be a good thing, Milo. No one will know what happened to them if they just disappear."

A grin that's almost scary lights Milo's features. We've been training a lot. After the Guardian at the mall, I made sure I knew how to get rid of a body should I ever need to go that far. Threats won't work on everyone.

"I'll be right back. Two minutes tops," Milo says.

He dashes out into the storm and disappears behind a wall of snow. Normally I would be captivated by the treat of a real snowstorm, but not tonight.

A noise from behind makes spins me around. I'm shocked to find Lance emerging from a dark hall. He stops several feet away and watches me. I knew coming here tonight was a bad idea. I don't think I'm up for another confusing confrontation with him right now.

"What do you want?" I ask. If he's going to try to kill me again, it isn't going to end well for him. I could never actually kill Lance, but I'd definitely make him sorry for the attempt. I search his emotions and thoughts, relived when I find no malice, but I'm still not thrilled to see him again.

"Why are you hanging out with Milo?"

The question surprises me. I was expecting something harsher. Another wave of confusion threatens to give me a migraine. "That's none of your business," I say. "What I do is none of your concern anymore, so leave me alone."

Lance's jaw tightens visibly. "There's something not right about him, Libby. You should get away from him before he hurts you."

"Oh, now you're warning me? That's just great, Lance. You're the last person in the world who should be giving me advice about friends right now, since you turned all of mine against me and you're obviously too afraid of what yours think to say what's really on your mind. Is that what you and Angus were arguing about? What you were really going to say to me? Or were you just yelling like lunatics about my social life" I ask sarcastically. "I'd think you had better things to do."

"I don't give a damn about what Angus thinks, not anymore, but I'm serious about Milo."

"What do you mean, not anymore?" I ask, honestly curious. Did that fight change something?

Hanging his head, Lance leans against the wall. "If you could name my worst quality, what would it be?"

"You care too much about what other people think of you," I say without having to think too hard. Since we were kids his pride has always been his biggest fault. It's gotten him into more fights than I can remember, and made him make a stupid choice more than once.

"You've told me that before, but I never agreed with you until tonight."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Shaking his head, Lance says, "It doesn't matter. You won't believe me anyway."

"You won't even give me the chance?" Can't he see that I want to believe he hasn't become this horrible monster I'm forced to hate? I want him to tell me this has all been a big misunderstanding.

"It's obviously too late," Lance says, gesturing at my hair. The sight of my curls sets him on edge again. "Hate me if you have too, Libby, but you have to listen to me about Milo. You shouldn't be hanging around with him. He's dangerous."

"What are you talking about?"

Lance opens his mouth but closes it again right away. His internal struggle rages through his features, but finally he says, "I can't explain it, Libby, but something about him isn't right. You have to trust me on this."

Trust him? Maybe if he trusted me enough to explain I could.

I yank the door open regardless of the snow. The cold scours me, focuses me enough to think before I do something stupid like giving in to the desperation pouring off him. Before stepping out into the storm, I look over my shoulder, and say, "Your word about Milo being dangerous would have been enough once, but not anymore. Not if you aren't willing to trust me back."

Lance's frown tightens, but he doesn't argue with me.

"Besides," I say, "he can't be any more dangerous of a friend than you turned out to be."

Chapter 18

Irrational

I don't realize I've fallen asleep until Milo wakes me with a gentle whisper. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, we're home."

I yawn and open my eyes. "You say that like you live here, too." _We're home_. He has yet to talk me into letting him stay over. I have no doubts that he's thinking of my safety—well, almost no doubts—but I also know that I would have a very hard time asking him to sleep on the floor. I have a hard enough time watching him leave every night. Tonight will be even worse. Having Celia with us this past week has made it a little easier. Milo's parents may forget he exists, but Celia has a ten o'clock curfew.

Milo shrugs, a hint of a smile ruining his nonchalance. "I practically do. The only time I see my own house is to sleep."

"And that's how it's going to stay, right?" I say.

He just smiles and gets out of the car. I wait patiently for him to open my door and take his hand. We walk to the door together. Milo already has his keys in hand and opens the door. I honestly didn't even reach for my own keys. He doesn't live here, my foot. It's more like this is his home and his real house is the hotel he stops in at every night for the fun of it. This is hardly lost on Milo. His chuckle says, "I told you so," just as much as words could.

I brush past him with my nose in the air just for spite. I'm to the bed before I realize Milo isn't following me. Turning back to the door, his dark shape is outlined in silver by the light of the street lamps outside. For a moment his appearance seems sinister, and Lance's warning comes back to mind.

"Milo, what's wrong?" I ask as I approach him.

Up close to him, the fear I felt a second ago disappears. His face is serious, but not anxious. Whatever his worry is, it's not for my safety. "It's late," he says finally. "I should go."

After his teasing I find this oddly funny, not to mention the fact that we never got to finish our conversation at the dance. "But I thought you practically lived here?"

He doesn't appreciate the joke. "It's late, Libby. I should get home before my parents start wondering where I am."

"Did you tell your parents where you were going tonight?" I ask, wondering why his parents would care where he is tonight more than any other night.

"They asked when they saw me dressed up, so I told them I was going to the dance."

"But not who you were going with," I say. I don't know why I should expect anything else, but it's another reminder that normal will just never apply to me.

Milo pulls me into his arms. "No. I'm sorry, Libby. I hope you know I would introduce you to them if I could, but it would only put you in more danger. It's too bad, too, because I think they would really like you if you weren't Cassia."

"It's okay," I say, "I understand."

For several moments neither of us says anything. Maybe it's foolish to think having Milo and Celia in my life are enough. I wouldn't know what to do without either of them, but it would be lying to say I didn't miss having parents, or talking to other people, or being able to meet my best friend's family. Villains are always lonely, though, aren't they? But I don't feel like a villain. I don't want to be one, either. I don't even want to be a hero. Living a normal life where people aren't afraid to look at me is all I'm really asking for. And if I only get two more years to live, is it really that much to ask? I bury my head against Milo's chest and will my melancholy to stay away.

"I really should go," Milo says.

"I don't want you to leave yet," I whisper. Running into Lance twice and knowing he fought with one of his best friends because of me, not to mention getting Lance's strange warning, has left me feeling a little hollow. I don't want to be alone right now. I pull more tightly against Milo. Something changes in his stance. His arms wrap around me more hungrily than usual. My mind wanders back to our unfinished conversation on the dance floor. He said he didn't want me getting back together with Lance and that he was hoping...something. I never got to hear what he was hoping would follow me staying away from Lance.

"I don't want to go either," he says, stroking my hair slowly, "but I don't think I should stay."

"Will your parents really worry about where you are?" I ask.

His breathing stops for a brief second. "No, probably not."

"Then stay."

"Stay?" he questions. I can hear the question of how long in that one word. He holds his emotions hostage, but there is a tenor to his voice I've never heard before.

"I'm not asking you to spend the night, Milo. I'm just asking you to stay with me a little longer. I just don't want to be alone yet." Every time I close my eyes I see Lance's face, his eyes begging me to listen to him, to forgive him. Thinking of him makes me want to cry.

"Running into Lance really got to you, didn't it?" He sounds surprised.

I nod, feeling childish for being affected so much by Lance, but he was my best friend since we were babies. It hurts to have a person like that turn on me. And it's only made worse by believing Lance is still looking out for me but refuses to admit it. He looked so betrayed when he saw my curls, which means he still cares, doesn't it? His question about my curls isn't the only thing still bothering me. I decide to take a risk. "When you went to get the car, Lance found me again."

"What?" His voice attempts to keep its dull glean, but angry tension makes it hum. "What did he want?"

"He told me I should stay away from you. He thought you were...dangerous, and he wanted me to stop hanging around with you," I say, my voice getting quieter as I go.

Milo's body goes rigid. "Are you freaking kidding me? That prick has the balls to say anything about _me_ being dangerous! He's the one who tried to kill you! Did you actually take him seriously?" he demands.

"No," I say quickly. "I mean, I think he's wrong, obviously, or I wouldn't be asking you to stay with me, but the way he said it...I think he was really worried. He believed what he was telling me."

"What does it matter what Lance believes?" Milo demands. "You know he's wrong, right? I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know you're not."

"Then why are you telling me this? Do you want me to go after him and tell him to leave you alone? Because I will if I have to." His eyes glance at the door, and I start to worry that he means it.

I grab his arm and tug on him until he's facing me. "Milo, I know you would never hurt me, I was just wondering why Lance would say something like that. I mean, I know you have things you haven't told me, and I won't ask you to, but what would make Lance think you were dangerous?"

"You think I gave him some reason to be afraid of me? I haven't done anything to him, Libby. Nothing. I've wanted to punch him in the face about a dozen times, but I haven't. I have no idea what would make him say that about me," Milo says.

"Nothing?"

Milo's face darkens. "You do believe him, don't you?"

"No, Milo."

"Then why are we still talking about this?"

My frustration over my confusion with Lance, this crappy night, everything that has gone wrong lately boils over. I don't think before I speak. "Because Lance has always been there to protect me! My entire life. I know what he did to me, but I believed him when he said he was afraid for me. I just want to know why he would say something like that!"

Stunned by my outburst, Milo doesn't answer right away. His stony silence scares me. Is there really a reason behind Lance's fear? Is there something I've missed this entire time? When Milo takes a deep breath before speaking, I hold my own breath as I wait for his answer.

"He wants you to doubt me," Milo says angrily. "He's just trying to hurt you again by making you drive away the only person who cares about you. He wants to drive you away from me, and I won't let him, Libby."

The only person who cares about me? My mind switches tracks completely, putting Lance and his warning aside for now. Does Milo really mean that? It's kind of sad to think there is only one human being in this world who doesn't hate me, but I do like the idea that Milo truly cares about me. He won't let Lance drive me away from him either? I'm not convinced that's what Lance is trying to do, but the implications of Milo words sink deep into my heart.

He wants me, for himself apparently. An irrational brand of happiness starts building in my heart. I'm so distracted by it I don't realize Milo is putting his jacket back on. He's leaving, possibly going to find Lance. Or maybe he's angry at me for doubting him. Either way, I don't want him to leave. I panic and blurt out the first thing I can think of to make him stay.

"Do you want to know why I wouldn't curl my hair before tonight?"

Milo's hand freezes on the door knob he just grabbed. "What does that have to do with Lance?"

"Nothing. Look, what Lance said scared me, Milo, but if you say there isn't any reason for him to think you're dangerous, I believe you." I watch as Milo's shoulders relax fractionally. "I don't want to talk about Lance anymore, okay? Forget about what he said, and I will too." At least I'll try to.

Milo takes his hands off the door and turns back around. Turmoil flashes in his eyes. He wants to go after Lance. He's been itching to put his fist through his teeth for months now. Maybe Lance would deserve it. I'm not sure anymore. But Milo would get suspended. I don't want him getting in trouble because of me. Walking over to him, I reach my hands up to his jacket and attempt to slide it back off. His hands catch mine and hold them.

"Please don't go, Milo. I'm sorry I even brought Lance up. Just stay, okay?" I ask. This night has not gone like I was hoping it would at all.

I don't know if it's my plea, or the fact that my hands are still on his chest, but Milo finally relents. "Are you going to tell me about the curls?" Milo asks.

"Are you going to stay?"

"For a little while," he says, his expression morphing into something lighter, "but only if you go change. You look way too good in that dress for me to focus on your story. It's distracting."

I reach up and touch his cropped hair. "You don't look so bad yourself."

"Go change," he demands, though his hands have slipped down to my hips.

"Okay, okay," I say. "Be right back."

I hurry through putting on my pajamas and brushing my teeth, only taking my time when it comes to hanging my dress back up. When I emerge from the bathroom Milo is lying on the bed with his eyes closed. I seriously doubt he is sleeping. His suit coat is draped over the sling chair, and his cuffs are rolled up with the top two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. The small triangle of bare chest is a tantalizing peek at the muscles Celia promised were there.

I can't resist running my finger along his exposed skin. He jumps and his eyes pop open in surprise. "I think you should have to change, too," I say.

Milo grabs my hand and pulls me onto the bed next to him. "I don't have any clothes here."

"Maybe you should keep a spare sweatshirt here. But not the grey one, it's seriously ugly."

Laughing, Milo says, "You've wanted to say that for a while, haven't you?"

"Since the first time I saw it."

He chuckles and slips his arm under my head. "Well, you'll be happy to know that the grey sweatshirt is no more. The suit wasn't the only thing I bought. I've decided to give up trying to be invisible, no matter what it costs me. I don't think I could pull it off much longer being your friend anyway. You seem to attract attention for some reason. I can't imagine why."

"You realize that means your parents might find out about me, right?"

The silence seems heavy without his voice. "We'll deal with that when we have to," Milo says. "But for right now, you owe me an explanation. Tell me about the curls."

I used the first thing I could think of to get him to stop earlier. Now that I'm actually faced with telling him the truth, I can't seem to get the words to escape my quickly constricting throat. He doesn't pressure me. My eyes start to burn with unshed tears, pain I have held in for years trying to burst free of me. Milo's breathing has slowed to the point that I think he might be asleep before I'm finally in control enough to speak.

Maybe I have dodged this conversation for now. Milo squeezes my shoulder, and says, "So?"

I sigh, but keep my promise.

"My dad had really curly hair. I loved it. I don't know how many times I wished mine was like his instead of my mom's stick-straight hair. I kept thinking it would happen, but my mom finally told me when I was five that my hair was never going to be curly. I begged her to take me to the salon to get it permed, but she said no. She was too busy, I guess. My dad wasn't."

I have to pause to sniff and wipe away the tears that have snuck past my control. My dad was never too busy for me. No matter what he was doing, he would put it down if I needed him. He would have done anything for me.

"He bought me a package of pink sponge curlers, and every night after my bath he would roll them into my hair while we talked about what we'd done that day. It was my most favorite part of the day. Even when I got old enough to put the curlers in myself, he still insisted on helping me. He curled my hair every night from the time I was five until he died."

Milo turns onto his side, and I curl against his chest. The breath I feel like I have been holding for five years finally slips out of my body. I choke back another round of tears when Milo starts stroking my hair, twirling the curls around his fingers just like my dad used to do.

"So, you never curled your hair even once after your dad died?" Milo asks.

"Not until tonight."

"But wouldn't curling your hair have reminded you of him, maybe made it feel like he was still with you?" he asks.

My breathing starts coming faster. "I...I didn't want to be reminded of him."

"Why not? You two were obviously really close. Why would you want to just shut him out like that?"

"It was too painful to be reminded of him, Milo. You have no idea how much it hurt," I say.

Milo frowns. He's trying to understand, but I just don't think he can. "If I ever lost Celia, I couldn't put her away like that, pretend she never existed. I would want to keep her alive in my heart and mind."

"I couldn't th-think about h-him." Sobbing hiccups break up my words as memories break my heart. "N-not after wh-what I did to him."

Pressing his forehead against mine, Milo tries to comfort me. "What did you do, Libby? It couldn't be anything that bad."

"I...I killed him."

Chapter 19

Holding Back

"I...uh, you what?" Milo asks.

"I killed him. I killed my dad," I whisper into his shirt. His entire body has turned to marble, hard and alien. What have I done? Please don't let go of me, I beg silently. If Milo leaves I will truly be alone. I can't do this without him. I don't _want_ to do this without him. Milo is the only reason I don't go back to Mr. Walters and take him up on his offer. What good is an extra two years if I have to spend it completely alone? Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me.

Suddenly his hands start rubbing slow circles on my back again. He leans into me and presses his cheek against mine. I can't breathe because I'm afraid I'm imagining this. Milo can't possibly want to stay with me now.

"What happened?" Milo asks. "I don't believe you meant to hurt him. You wouldn't do that."

He is probably the only person in this world who actually believes that. Even with Celia, I think she's secretly afraid of what I'll do. The single fact that I make her brother happy is just more powerful of an idea to her. I just wish I knew whether Milo was right.

"I don't really know what happened," I admit. "I was my birthday. We'd spent the day at the amusement park with my friends. Then everyone came back to my house for cake and ice cream. I was so exhausted that night that I fell asleep on the couch and my dad had to carry me up to bed."

It was the last time he held me in his arms and I wasn't even awake to savor it.

"What happened after he took you to bed?" Milo asks. His rough voice betrays dark thoughts and I shake my head quickly.

"He didn't hurt me, Milo. My dad would never have hurt me," I say.

"Then what?"

"I remember being asleep, which is kind of strange, I guess. I thought I was dreaming at first, but then I realized it wasn't a normal dream. It was different, real, if that makes sense. Someone was calling my name, screaming at me to wake up. Then there were even more people. They were all yelling, telling me to wake up over and over again. It scared me to death. I didn't know what was going on, but I had learned how to wake myself up from bad dreams years before. I focused all my thoughts on my real body and starting counting. Before I got to ten, the dream started disappearing. I realized something was wrong right away."

"What do you mean _wrong_?" Milo asks.

"I don't know. It was just wrong." The sensations of that night return like they do every time I think about it. "The air was pressing in on me, suffocating me. I felt nothing, no emotions, no presence of other people like I usually did, no connection with the natural world around me. All I could feel was pain. My strength was being sapped from my body to the point that I could barely even force my eyes open. When I did get them open, all I could see was my dad's outline against the window. I don't know what he was doing, but the pain was so horrible it physically shocked my body."

"What did you do?"

My chest shakes involuntarily. The terror of that night sneaks back into my heart. "I don't know," I whisper. "I was so scared. I tried to tell him to stop, but I'm not sure I even spoke. I could barely even move. It hurt so bad to move, but I forced myself to reach for his hand. The moment I touched him, everything went away. I was so relieved I didn't even hear him screaming at first. When I finally registered it, his face was so white. His whole body was shaking. I tore my hand away from him immediately, but I was too late. He slumped to the ground and he never got up again."

I dry my face and try to finish with what little dignity I can muster. "By the time my mom ran into my room, there was nothing anyone could do to save him. She saw him on the floor and started crying. Our butler, Manuel, was the one who called the paramedics. I knew my dad was already gone, though. I felt his life leave his body as he fell still. I don't know what I did to him, but it's my fault he's dead. I killed him, Milo."

Milo buries me in his arms. "You don't know that, Libby. It could have been something he did himself. He was obviously doing something to you when you woke up. Maybe it turned back on him."

"But he wasn't trying to hurt me, Milo."

"You don't know what he was doing. Maybe he didn't mean to hurt you, but whatever it was, it definitely hurt him." I start to object, but Milo talks right over me. "You waking up interrupted what he was doing. It could be that whatever he was in the middle of wasn't supposed to be interrupted. But even if that's true, it wasn't your fault."

"If I would have just stayed still until he finished..."

"No," Milo says, "who knows what might have happened to you. Those people in your dream, they knew something was wrong. I think something bad would have happened to you if you didn't stop your dad. I can't explain it, I don't have Spiritualism to give me any otherworldly insight, but I know I'm right about this."

My chin quivers. I will defend my dad to the end because I loved him more than anything in this world, but regardless of my arguments I know what I felt that night. The terror in my dream was so overwhelming. The people were so filled with it all they could do was scream at me, but they knew something more. They knew there would be tremendous suffering if I didn't wake up and stop my dad.

"He couldn't have known what he was doing was going to hurt me," I say quietly. I have to believe that. If my faith in my dad is taken away from me...I just can't handle that. He was all I had for so long. "He didn't know."

"I'm sure he didn't," Milo says, almost like he believes it.

"But what was he doing?" I ask. I'm not really expecting a response, but Milo surprises me completely by pulling me off the bed with him. He tosses me my lavender hoodie and tugs his suit coat back on. I hold the hoodie in front of me without moving.

Milo turns back to me, and says, "Well, put it on. It's snowing outside."

It seems to be a re-emergence of that bossy commanding Milo I met after Celia and I were attacked at the mall. I didn't like being told what to do then, and I don't like it much now. "Are we going somewhere? It's the middle of the night."

Taking the sweatshirt out of my hands Milo drapes it over my head and pulls it down until my curls bounce through the top, followed by the rest of my face. I push my arms through the sleeves with growing irritation. "Milo, I'm not going anywhere in the snow. It's too late."

"He won't care," Milo says. "He said we could visit at any time as long as it had something to do with you being the Destroyer."

"He who? Mr. Walters? Milo, you can't be serious. I do not want to go to Mr. Walters' house tonight." I don't want to go anywhere right now, but I especially don't want to spend the rest of my night sitting around at one of my teachers' houses.

"Can you think of anyone else who might know what your dad was doing?" he asks.

"Well, no, but why can't we talk to him tomorrow?" I ask. I'll admit that Milo is probably right about Mr. Walters being able to help me. That scares me to death. I'm not sure I want to know what really happened. What if Milo is right? What if my dad was trying to hurt me? I don't want to admit that to Milo, though, so I dig up another reason. "I'm tired, Milo. Why don't we go see him in the morning? We should be going to bed, not traipsing off to Mr. Walters' house."

Milo's hands slow in their work of pulling my hair out from my hoodie. " _We_ should be going to bed?" The glint in his eyes is horrible.

I just glare at him. "Why can't we do this tomorrow?"

"Because he's leaving tomorrow morning, remember? His sister's in the hospital. That's why you don't have to go to his class all next week."

It's been a long week. By Friday, I don't know that I caught much of anything any of my teachers said to me. Faking my way through every class, getting to know Celia, training with Milo, dreading going to the dance, it was a lot to deal with. Paying attention to lectures kind of fell by the wayside at some point. I vaguely remember hearing Mr. Walters say something about his sister. Waiting until tomorrow to ask him would have been fine by me—I need at least that long to prepare myself for the worst—but waiting a whole week? I can't do it. Not if he really has some kind of answer for me. Five years. That is long enough.

"You could have said that from the start," I snap, irritated that I have to give in to him taking over again. "Fine, let's go."

Milo and I hurry out to his car, and we're driving down the interstate a few minutes later. I try looking out the window to distract myself from the possibility that I might actually find some answers. It's thrilling and terrifying all in the same breath. I try closing my eyes but the images of the screaming spirits burst into my mind at once. Finally I scoot to the very edge of my seat and lean toward Milo. His arm comes around my shoulder automatically. Everything slows. The car keeps racing along the highway at ridiculous speeds, but I feel like I can finally take a breath. Whatever Mr. Walters tells us, I don't have to hear it alone.

That single piece of knowledge carries me up to his house when we arrive.

Milo rings the bell and we wait. The upstairs light is the first to flick on. Then the hallway. The porch light buzzes to life a moment before the door pulls open. Mr. Walters' snowy white hair is doing a wonderful impression of Einstein at the moment. His eyes blink rapidly before fastening onto me.

"Libby? What time is it?" he asks.

"It's a little after eleven o'clock," I say. "Sorry to wake you, but we really need to talk to you before you leave."

Mr. Walters nods blearily, his gaze slowly sliding over to Milo. His face scrunches as he peers at the young man in front of him. "Who are..." His eyes widen. "Milo? Good gracious, boy, what did you do to yourself? I barely recognized you in proper clothes."

I don't even bother to stifle my laughter. Milo takes it with his customary shrug.

"Could we talk to you about something?" Milo asks.

"Does it have to do with the Destroyer?" he asks. Milo nods. "Then yes. Come in, please."

We troop inside his retro style (and I don't mean the good kind of retro) bungalow. The "grandma used to live here" theme is carried into the living room with patchwork throw pillows and quaint pictures of cottages. To be honest, I expected something a little more...intimidating from a former Seeker. Milo looks like he's thinking the same thing.

"Sit down, sit down. I've got to catch a flight in the morning, so let's not waste any time. Why are you here?" Mr. Walters asks.

"How much do you know about my dad's death?" I ask.

Mr. Walters' head tilts to one side. "As much as anyone, I suppose. There weren't very many details released to the public."

I take a deep breath. "I want to tell you the rest of the story."

Curiosity strong enough to kill a dozen cats piques in Mr. Walters' eyes.

"I want to tell you what really happened," I say shakily. I knew this was coming. It is the price for getting the key to unlock my guilt. So with as much detail as I can remember, I tell Mr. Walters everything. I don't leave out anything, not the way my dad had been clutching my hand, not the look of terror in his eyes when he first realized I was awake. He listens to what I have to say with an eager expression. When I finish he leans back in his chair and presses the tips of his fingers together.

"So you want to know what your father was doing to you that night," he says slowly.

The tone of his voice, his confident posture, they all give me hope.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have an answer for you, Libby."

My shoulders fall.

"But that doesn't mean there is no answer. We'll just have to find it," he says. "What other talents did your father possess besides Perception?"

"Vision and Concealment," I say quickly, latching onto this slim chance of finding an answer with all the strength my spent mind and body can manage.

Mr. Walters nods. "The three hallmarks of a very powerful Inquisitor. Now I believe you've mentioned previously that your father knew you were Cassia before he died. When did he find out?"

"About a year before his death," I say. "A few months before my tenth birthday he started testing me, to be sure. I didn't realize what he was doing at first because the tests were little things like him purposely throwing a ball farther than I should have been able to reach, timing me when he called me, seeing how I reacted to his emotional changes, things like that. I knew by then that I shouldn't react in any way that would give me away, but I didn't fool him. His Concealment probably clued him in to what I was doing. It was impossible to lie to him."

"But even just suspecting something was up wouldn't be enough to make him say anything, right?" Milo says. "That's a pretty big thing to lay on a ten year old if you aren't absolutely certain."

"Indeed." Mr. Walters rubs a hand up and down his neck as he thinks. "Was it his Vision that finally convinced him?"

"I think so. We were sitting on the couch one day watching TV and I leaned my head on his shoulder. His whole body went rigid. I was about to call for my mom when he grabbed my arm hard enough to leave bruises. He shook his head over and over again until it passed." Milo glances at my arm as if expecting to find those long ago injuries. My dad had held me so tight. Remembering the fear in his eyes makes me shiver. He never did tell me what he saw, but part of me wonders if he had seen his death and knew I was the cause.

Mr. Walters is the only one who seems unfazed by my experience. It's just another clue to him. "Given how powerful your father was, and how connected the two of you were, it doesn't surprise me in the least that he would discover who you were. I think it's safe to say that whatever he was trying to accomplish that night was related to your being the Destroyer."

My mind tries to veer away from that line of logic given Milo's skepticism of my dad's intentions, and my old recollection of the intense pain and fear I felt that night. But if anything would drive my dad to drastic measures, it would be my dark future. He had to be trying to help me, though. He wouldn't have tried to hurt me. He wasn't Lance.

"But what could he have possibly been trying to accomplish other than killing her?" Milo asks. His half-apologetic frown to me stings. If he knew my dad he wouldn't be so cynical. Dead Guardians, secrets, danger from who knows what, parents who pretend he doesn't exist, maybe his doubt doesn't have to do with my dad, but with his own history instead.

I force my mind off Milo's past and back to my own when I realize Mr. Walters is speaking.

"...no way to know for sure. The talent I think we should focus on is Spiritualism. I believe we'll have the best chance of uncovering the truth by looking into this talent."

"But," I interrupt, "my dad didn't even have Spiritualism."

"Yes, I know, but you do," he says. "I never met your father, Libby, but I have heard from many people who did know him that he was a very kind and compassionate person. It seems likely to me that he was trying to help you in some way, but despite the power behind the talents he had, the lack of certain other talents could have caused him to make a very bad judgment about his course of action."

I feel like we've been here forever. So much has happened today, and it's all starting to catch up with me. It's getting harder to concentrate by the second. I'm not sure what he's trying to say to me. Forget tact. "What are you talking about?"

"You were warned, were you not? By spirits who were able to contact you because of your Spiritualism."

"Spirits?" I ask. "It was just a dream, wasn't it?"

"You said yourself it wasn't a normal dream, that it felt too real. That is exactly how people usually describe their first trip to the spirit world. You weren't having a nightmare. I'm confident you were pulled into the spirit world in order to be warned," Mr. Walters explains.

"Oh," I say, feeling incredibly stupid for never having realized that myself. I've only ever dabbled in the side of Spiritualism that dealt with pushing people in the direction I want. I've never even tried going to the spirit world on my own. I didn't see the point.

Mr. Walters gives me one of his long-suffering looks and continues. "For whatever reason, they knew what you father was doing was wrong and tried to prevent it from happening. If your father had had the same talent, I believe they would have warned him as well," Mr. Walters says.

"So what are you suggesting?" I ask.

He blinks at me as if it should have been perfectly obvious by now. I stare at him blankly. He sighs, giving me the impression that his opinion of my mental capability has just dropped dramatically. If I weren't too tired, I would set him right. Instead I simply wait for him to explain. He does so with exaggerated patience.

"I am suggesting that we go back to the only beings that seem to have any idea about what happened that night. You need to make contact with the spirits who warned you five years ago and ask them what they know. It couldn't be simpler."

"Simple?" I say. "Spiritualism is my weakest talent. I don't think I could contact a single spirit, let alone find the exact ones that warned me to wake up."

His brow crinkles. The displeasure is clear on his face. "Who is your Spiritualism teacher? Mrs. Sanchez, right? Go to her Monday and..."

"No. She won't help me. She won't even answer my questions in class. Like all my teachers, she just pretends I don't exist. You're the only one crazy enough to want to help the Destroyer gain power," I say.

"It's not crazy to try and help someone reach their potential," he argues.

"It is when they're going to destroy the world!"

"But you're not going to destroy the world, are you? Unless your plans have changed."

I wonder if I could blame strangling him on exhaustion and get away with it. "I'm not going to destroy anything, and you know it."

"Libby, I told you the first day we met that if you expected to survive the next two years, and hopefully longer, that you were going to have to embrace who you are. Since you did not take me up on my original offer, I expect you to follow through with your decision. Dedicate yourself to _all_ of your talents, not just the ones you think are the most useful. If you hadn't been shirking your duty to develop your Spiritualism, contacting those spirits and getting the answers you need would be a very simple task."

I feel like sticking my tongue out at him. Maybe I'll just settle for spitting in his coffee when he isn't looking. He's such a smug, irritating, bizarre, know-it-all, bossy...

"What offer?" Milo asks, interrupting my internal tirade.

Oh no. I groan and close my eyes.

"What was that, Milo?" Mr. Walters asks over his shoulder from where he's standing at a rather large bookcase.

"What offer from you did Libby turn down?"

"Oh, that," he says with a shrug. "I offered to kill her."

The air bristles around Milo. "You what?"

"I gave her a choice. Die or become the Destroyer. She needed to realize that those were the only two options available to her," he says. The casual, unconcerned quality of his voice is so frustrating. But he's not done yet. "I believe Libby made the right choice. There is more to being the Destroyer than mayhem and destruction."

"Like what?" I ask. Anything to get us off the topic of one of my teachers offering to murder me.

Mr. Walters gives me a dry look. "That lecture is for another day. We have more important things to discuss right now." He sets a stack of books related to Spiritualism on the coffee table and returns to his chair. He's about to speak when Milo interrupts him.

"There's something you're holding back. What aren't you telling us?"

For the first time in possibly ever, Mr. Walters looks completely caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Maybe you don't know exactly what Libby's dad was doing, but you have an idea, don't you?" Milo accuses. "Something Libby said tipped you off. You moved on too quickly. You never leave an unanswered question that fast. What are you keeping from us?"

Milo sounds so sure. And Mr. Walters is squirming. I can't believe it, but Milo's right. I don't know how he saw it, but he's right. "Mr. Walters?" I ask.

"I'm not certain," he says slowly, crossing his arms across his chest, "but I think...I think your father was trying to steal your talents."

Chapter 20

Betrayal

The truth of Mr. Walters' words slap against me like an endless tide of betrayal. I want desperately to deny what he said. There is nothing left for me to defend. The proof is in my own memories. After waking up, I felt as if I was being drained. Of everything. I was so weak I could barely move. I felt disconnected from the world in a way I had never experienced before. The world around me felt plain and ordinary.

I grew up with my talents from birth. Plain and ordinary were completely foreign to me. It was beyond terrifying. I can't imagine living my life feeling so singular, as if I were one tiny rock in a vast forest instead of part of something immense and unending. Given the choice of casting off my future to be free of my destiny and living such a barren existence, I don't know that I could choose something so bleak.

"I've never heard of someone stealing another person's talents," Milo says. His voice sounds far away and thin. I'm too wrapped up in my own emotional turmoil to be present in their discussion. I can only listen through a haze.

"It is called a Serqet, and it's not openly discussed. I have only heard of it myself through some less than legal inquiries. I have never heard of it being performed successfully. In every case both people involved died," Mr. Walters says.

"Doesn't that mean it's impossible, then? If no one can do it..."

"No one has been able to do it, yet. That's hardly the same as something being impossible."

"I don't see how."

"There has yet to be someone powerful enough to accomplish stealing a talent. If someone powerful enough were found, they could do it," he says. "Apparently Libby's father thought himself able to do it, or I doubt he would have even considered it."

"Or he didn't know how difficult it was," Milo offers.

"Or how dangerous. I still believe that Mr. Sparks would not intentionally harm Libby."

"Maybe," Milo mutters.

"The thing that bothers me the most is where he got the idea from in the first place. He shouldn't have even known about the process in the first place."

"Why not?"

"Because the technique was developed by the Concealers. They can find the root of the talents and, if strong enough, use their ability to reveal things to actually pull them out and transfer them to themselves. Only a person gifted with Concealment can employ the Serqet. And even though Andrew had Concealment, he was in training to be an Inquisitor. He never would have been considered for a position in the Veil."

"The Veil?" Milo asks.

"The ruling council of the Concealers. They're supposed to be the only ones who know about this," Mr. Walters says.

Even held back by my grief, I am rocked by a new realization. There is no grief for this betrayal. Only anger. Furious, consuming anger. My fury spills out of me and covers the room. Milo must feel it because he turns to stare at me. Mr. Walters follows his gaze.

"Libby?" Milo asks. "Are you okay?"

My teeth are ground together so tight I can't even speak.

"Libby, what is the matter with you, child?" Mr. Walters demands.

"My mother," I hiss.

The two men glance at each other in confusion.

"My mother is a Concealer. Her father is a member of the Veil."

Realization dawns on their faces at the same time. "You think your mom told him how to steal your talents?" Milo asks.

"You said your mother didn't know about you being Cassia until your Inquest," Mr. Walters says.

"She didn't. My dad wouldn't have told her for the same reason he set up a bank account for me that she had no access to. He knew her too well. No, he would have given her some other reason he wanted to know. She probably thought he wanted to make himself more powerful, and she would have loved the idea of that," I say. Anything that made her more influential, rich, or popular would have made her anxious to help.

"But she would have known the risk," Mr. Walters argues.

A bitter little laugh erupts from my lips. "Losing me wouldn't have bothered her at all, and she pretty much worshiped my dad. She thought he was the most powerful person she had ever met. She probably told herself that he would be the first one to ever steal a talent. I doubt she was even worried."

Milo's arm slips around my shoulder, stealing some of my anger. I'm not alone anymore. My mom isn't a part of my life, now. I can leave her in my past until I'm ready to confront her. Which might be when Hell freezes over, but still. I can't deal with her right now. I have more important things to worry about than my self-absorbed, possibly murderous mother. Clamping down on my anger isn't pleasant, but I do it, and pack it away for another day.

"So how do I contact these spirits?" I ask.

Milo frowns at my sudden change in topic. Mr. Walters is as ready to move on as I am, though. He picks up a book and starts flipping through the pages. Finding what he's looking for, he sets the book down facing me and Milo. The tip of his finger draws our attention to the left page.

"The easiest way to contact a spirit directly is by falling asleep, but it is also the most unreliable. You have to stay in the higher stages of sleep the entire time. If you drop off to a deeper stage you will lose your progress. Using a focused, meditative trance is harder to achieve, but easier to maintain and manipulate," he explains.

I sigh despite my best effort. "Mr. Walters, I said Spiritualism wasn't my best area, not that I'm a moron. I already know about trances. Getting myself into one isn't all that hard. Doing something once I'm there is my biggest problem. I can guide or manipulate someone, but only if they're pretty unstable in the beginning. I've never been able to touch a living human spirit. And I have never even wanted to try contacting a spirit."

"Not even your dad?" Milo asks.

"I was too afraid."

"Well, it's time to get over your fear, Libby," Mr. Walters says. "Spirits are not ghosts that are going to haunt you or harm you. They are simply sentient entities. No one is particularly sure what they are. Spirits of the dead, or perhaps those not yet born, gods of some kind, aliens, there are plenty of theories. None of which I want to discuss. I don't care who they are or where they come from right now. I only care that they know something we do not. You must attempt to contact them. This could be an invaluable piece of the equation that will keep you alive."

"Okay," I say with a growl that sounds way too much like Milo, "then tell me how to do it and stop lecturing me."

His scowl is hardly intimidating. "I was getting to that," he says.

I wait.

"Once you are in the trance you must first access your own spirit. You do that by shutting down all your other talents besides Spiritualism. Once you are disconnected from everything else you have to turn your focus inward, sifting through any lingering distractions until you reach the spirit. Once you've made contact, you can then open yourself up to the other spirits around you.

"From what I understand, spirits in the spirit world are generally a curious group. It shouldn't take long for you to find one. Once you do that it will simply be a matter of finding the right spirit to talk to. I have no idea how many of them there are, but hopefully they're all acquainted with each other enough that finding one of the ones who visited you that night won't be too difficult."

"It all sounds so simple," I say sarcastically.

"Simple or not, it's your only chance at finding out what really happened that night," Mr. Walters says. "So let's get started."

How did I know he was going to suggest that? I glance up at the pendulum clock hanging on his wall. It's already after midnight and I have a feeling this isn't going to be short. "Alright, let's get started then," I say through my fear and exhaustion.

Milo glances at the clock. He doesn't look thrilled about staying. I kick him in the shin, followed by a smirk. He's the one who suggested this in the first place. He's not leaving until I do. Sinking into the couch, Milo crosses his arms and settles in.

"Get into your trance first, and I'll do my best to guide you after that. I don't actually have Spiritualism, so I'm working purely off my research, but it should be enough."

I nod and close my eyes. I'm tired and emotionally drained, which isn't the ideal circumstance to be trying this, but I do it anyway. As scary as it is to think of actually getting some real answers, I want them desperately.

Mr. Walters waits patiently as I struggle to compose myself. His quiet is unnerving. I could almost stand it better if he yelled at me. His eternal politeness is incredibly irritating sometimes. With no other options, I systematically begin shutting myself off from all of the outside interference. The noises go first, the scents, the comforting presence of my other talents, and last, the feel of Milo sitting next to me.

Now I move on to cutting away my internal distractions. Thoughts are easy to release. I don't want to think of anything else right now, anyway. My weariness is the most difficult. It clings to me stubbornly. But when I finally distance myself from it my mind comes alive. I go from feeling absolutely nothing to being acutely aware of every particle of matter in the room.

Mr. Walters confirms that I have attained my trance and begins walking me through contacting my spirit. I can feel time passing. It's getting harder and harder to maintain my trance the longer I sit here. If exhaustion doesn't get me first, frustration certainly will. Mr. Walters' voice swirls around in my subconscious, pushing me to keep going. "Keep trying," he whispers. "You have to do this. You'll never have the answers you need unless you can do this."

It is just one more ounce of pressure too much. My concentration shatters. An angry growl rumbles through my clenched teeth. "It's my own freaking spirit! Why can't I find it?"

My fists smash into the cushion uselessly. Why can't I do this? It's my only chance to know, and it's the only talent I totally suck at. I can't keep my frustration from bubbling over and I throw myself back against the couch.

"Hey, it's okay," Milo says. "You're just too tired. You know the steps, now. We'll practice again tomorrow and you'll get it."

"Practice tomorrow, and the next day, and the next," Mr. Walters says. "This is your assignment for the week in lieu of coming to my class. I'll call you to check on your progress, but I expect you to be able to contact not only your own spirit, but the other spirits as well by the time I get back."

"Mr. Walters," I say, not at all patiently, "this is something that usually takes people years to learn. You can't expect me..."

"You've had years to learn, Libby. You chose to ignore this talent. It's your own fault you weren't successful tonight. You will master this if you put in the effort it requires. Make sure you practice every night."

My head is pounding, and my body is ready to drop. When I glance up at the clock and realize it's three in the morning, I feel twice as crappy. My brilliant response to Mr. Walters' calling out is to snarl at him and turn away. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him roll his eyes and turn away from me. I don't care. I'm too tired to care at this point. He approaches Milo, who stood up to put his coat back on at some point, and frowns.

"How has she been doing since her Inquest? I worry about her being on her own. Even with her talents, she's really only a child."

Do either of them have any idea how irritating it is to have people talk about you like you aren't there? I'll forgive them if they just let me go to sleep. My eyes close as they continue their conversation.

"She's doing pretty well, although tonight has been particularly hard on her emotionally," Milo says.

"Was there more than what we discussed here tonight?"

"We ran into Lance at the dance. It didn't go very well."

"I can imagine," Mr. Walters says. "How are her training sessions going?"

"Alright, I guess. I'm just not familiar enough with everything she needs to know. We seem to complement each other, but I don't know if it's enough. Especially when it comes to Spiritualism. Neither of us have much practice with that," Milo says.

"Take the books with you. She's going to need every talent to stay alive. Don't let her put it off."

"I won't."

I can feel myself moving toward sleep. The idea that Milo is in any way in charge of me is annoying enough to keep me from drifting off quite yet. He gets bossy and annoying enough all by himself without Mr. Walters egging him on. I'm going to have to say something to him about that. Later. Right now I'm too busy falling asleep.

"Milo," Mr. Walters says after a few moments of silence, "I wouldn't usually make this suggestion to two teenagers, but you may need to stay with her tonight. Not just because she's physically exhausted, but with telling her about her father and finding out about what her mother may have done, not to mention Lance, at some point it's all going to really hit home. She put it aside tonight, but she can't do it forever. She's going to have to face the fact that her mother may have tried to sacrifice her in order to gain a better social position. She shouldn't be alone when that happens."

"I won't leave her," Milo assures him.

The heck he won't, I think fleetingly. He's not in charge of protecting me. I can take care of myself. Their voices are growing more distant. Mr. Walters' is the last one I hear before sleep takes me.

"Take care of her, Cipher. She's more important than any of us can even imagine."

Chapter 21

Frigid

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Milo sprawled uncomfortably on the sling chair next to the bed. I'm not sure how he's even breathing with his head tilted back in such an awkward position. My eyes travel down his arm to where his hand meets mine. He held my hand all night. I know I doubted him last night after Lance's warning, but in this moment, I could never believe he would hurt me.

I am content to let him sleep as long as he wants, although I do consider moving him to the bed. Before I can take action Milo begins to stir. His eyes flutter open and find me. His tired smile makes it impossible for me to be anything other than grateful to him. Milo tries to sit up and winces. One hand rubs his neck vigorously, making me feel just a little guilty. He shakes it off, and I tug on his hand until he climbs up next to me. I lay my head on his shoulder, grateful for his nearness after such a terrible night.

Brushing my mangled curls out of my face is trickier than one might expect. It takes Milo a few tries to clear them enough to keep from getting a mouthful of hair. His cheek rests lightly against my temple, momentarily distracting me with thoughts of what he was going to say at the dance last night before Lance interrupted us. I want to ask, but there are other things weighing more heavily on my mind right now. I have a plan for today, and I want Milo with me, but I don't think he's going to like what I have to say.

"You stayed," I say, surprising myself, because that wasn't what I meant to start out with.

"You were crying. I couldn't leave." Milo's holds onto me, but he feels stiff and uncertain.

"Oh, I didn't realize," I say. I never sleep well, but last night was particularly awful. I didn't realize I let my pain show. An even deeper sense of gratitude fills me. "Thanks for staying with me, Milo."

The tension he's been holding melts away. His hands slide around me, and I'm almost sure his lips press lightly against my forehead. Goosebumps ripple across my body at what might have been an imagined touch. I want him to kiss me for real, but at the same time, I'm not sure I want to take that next step. Milo has been changing over the last couple of weeks. His strange controlling side makes me nervous, not to mention it bugs the heck out of me.

When he suddenly shifts into this softer, more caring Milo I don't know what to think. It's definitely nice, but where's the sarcastic, couldn't-care-less Milo I befriended in the first place? Not to mention I have some demons from my past to face down, Guardians and Seekers breathing down my neck, a destiny to figure out, and an ex-boyfriend who is confusing me more every time I see him. I'm afraid I'd just screw up a relationship right now, and I don't want to hurt Milo.

"I was worried about you last night," Milo says, interrupting my muddled thoughts. "You wouldn't wake up, but you kept crying and sobbing. You wouldn't respond to me at all."

Imagining myself bawling on the bed while Milo sat by my side helpless to do anything makes my barriers against him crumble a little more. I feel bad for him, but picturing myself alone and crying upsets me as well. I've been alone since my dad died, but I had kind of hoped Milo was starting to fill that void. "Maybe, you could have...you know, sat by me or something."

The corner of Milo's mouth turns up in a guilty smile. "I did, actually. I spent most of the night with my arms around you. It didn't help as much as I thought it would. I moved to the chair when you finally calmed down because I didn't want to freak you out if you woke up next to me."

I don't think I would have minded that, actually, but I'm not going to admit it to him. I'm not sure how he'd react to that. He may want to stay every night if he was about to say what I think he was last night. A request like that would be hard to resist after realizing how he held me all night. Or, he might think I was pushing things way too far and go back to being completely vague about his feelings for me. Milo admitting he wanted to stay would definitely be nice, but his pulling back would keep things less complicated.

I can't think of anything intelligent to say to him about that, so I opt for changing the subject. "I feel bad that you slept on that awful chair. Is your neck okay?"

"It's fine. How are you feeling?" His eyes are actually filled with honest concern. I don't remember crying last night, I don't remember even coming home, but the dreams and nightmares are still painted in my mind. I don't want to discuss it, but I can't reward Milo's vigilance and compassion by brushing him off.

I bite the inside of my cheek to help keep control of myself as the images and emotions come flooding back. "Part of me feels better now that I've told someone about what happened to my dad, but everything else from last night...I can't keep it all inside. I know there are probably more important things I should be doing, but I have to talk to my mom."

Milo frowns at the suggestion. "Libby, I really don't know if that's a good idea."

"I'm not asking you to come with me, Milo..."

"I won't let you go alone," he interrupts.

"She's _my_ mom. I've got to face her. I can't even think about anything else right now. I'm so angry at her. For everything. I could get over her ditching me after my Inquest. I hated living with her anyway. I can't get over her risking my dad's life for her own ambitions. It kills me to know that I'm the one who took his life, but I never meant to hurt him. My mom, she gave him the idea. It's her fault he's dead. Maybe my dad will forgive me if we ever meet again, but I will never forgive my mom for what she's done. I want her to hurt as much as I have for the past five years."

Milo's stares at me seriously. "Which is exactly why you shouldn't confront her yet. Wait until you've calmed down. If things get out of hand, the reporters will hear about it and you'll be taken away. That can't happen. You need to wait."

Taken away? That scares me more than I want to admit, but I shake my head at his argument. "I can't, Milo. I think she's keeping me from reaching the spirits. I have to do this."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't really know how far you've come with your Perception abilities because you never practice with me, but one of the first things I learned how to do with mine was trap my own emotions so no one else could sense them. I've been doing it so long, it's automatic for me. But I realized at some point last night when my nightmares finally stopped that I'll never be able to contact my spirit if I'm hiding parts of it. Those emotions are part of me, but they're locked away so tightly that I can't even get to them anymore."

"Then why don't you just...unlock them?" Milo asks.

"That's what I'm going to do," I say, "by confronting my mom. Letting me feel all of those pent up emotions isn't going to do me any good if I can't deal with them. I'll just end up locking them back up. I have to face her."

"Libby, I don't like this. If this goes badly..."

"It won't," I argue. Then I think better of it. Free of any repercussions, I would definitely do something both painful and humiliating to my mom, if not something worse. "But if things do start going wrong while we're there, I give you permission to stop me."

Doubt twists his face into a scowl. "Stop you how? You're the most powerful person on the planet, Libby. If you want to do something, I seriously doubt I'm going to be able to stop you."

How could he stop me? Hmm...kissing me would definitely do it. Instead, I say, "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Milo scowls at me and gets up from the bed. He paces over to the window and pulls back the curtain in a habitual gesture. It's the first time I notice that he isn't wearing his dress shirt and slacks from last night. My head tilts to the side in confusion. Where did the t-shirt and sweatpants he's wearing come from? A black duffle bag sitting next to the door finally registers in my mind.

"Where did that come from?" I ask as I walk over and point at the bag.

Milo looks at me and shrugs. "I stopped by my house last night. I know you liked the suit, but it would have been really uncomfortable to sleep in. Plus Celia was worried and kept texting me so I wanted to stop by and check on her."

"You went by your house?" I ask. I would have liked to have seen where he lived even if I couldn't go in.

"I was only there for a few minutes. You didn't miss anything."

"Still, I miss being able to go over to other people's houses and hang out and meet their families," I say.

Milo shakes his head at me. "You've already met Celia. My parents...you don't want to meet them. I can't even remember the last time I talked to them and didn't end up in a yelling match. They're something to avoid. Believe me."

"Why?" I ask. I'm sidetracking myself, but I really want to know. "Why don't you get along with your parents? Celia said it used to be different between you and them."

Fear widens Milo's pupils until the black swallows up his stormy grey irises. Anger joins the party soon after. "Celia was talking about me? What else did she say?"

"Nothing," I say quickly. "She told me I'd have to ask you. So I am."

"Good," he says. I'm guessing the "good" was referring to Celia not spilling his secrets, and not that I asked him since he doesn't bother to elaborate. I raise my eyebrows expectantly, waiting. Milo sees my expression, but the way his eyes dart away from me don't give me much hope that I'm going to get an answer.

"I thought we were talking about your parents. We can talk about mine later. Why don't you go take a shower so we can get this over with?" he says, though it's comes out as more of a command than a question.

"Fine," I say, heading for the bathroom. I'll give him this one, but he'd better believe I'm going to come back to this.

An hour later all thoughts of Milo's secrets are completely erased from my mind. The palatial home I grew up in looms in front of me like a nightmare. Its pearly walls and manicured lawns do nothing to change that impression. Coming home should feel like...well, coming home, but it doesn't. Not for me. This place stopped being my home the night my dad died. After that it was just a building I wasn't really welcome in. Only that oh-so-breakable bond of blood kept me there for as long as it did.

It is sucking me back now, and I'm letting it.

"We can turn back," Milo says.

"No. I've got to do this."

Nothing will change my mind and he knows it, so he approaches the gate and punches in the key code I gave him. I'm mildly surprised when the gates swing open. I had honestly worried that she might have changed the code after kicking me out, but that would require notifying the dozens of people who used the code on a regular basis. It would have been terribly inconvenient for my mom. And she doesn't do inconvenient. Leaving me while I was unconscious and sending some toady to drop off my bags, that was easy.

Milo's hands are tight on the steering wheel as we roll along the driveway and turn into the spacious parking area in front of the entrance. An expanse of marble steps draws his eyes up to the overly-large, oak double doors at the top of the staircase. He stops right at the base of the steps and cuts the engine. All of the sound seems to have been sucked out of the world, leaving only my fear and anger to fill its absence.

My sneakers make a soft tapping noise as I step out of the car. I can hear Milo take a deep breath and then follow my lead. He's pretending this doesn't freak him out, but he's not as good at hiding things as me. Worry clings to his skin worse than the cold, damp air left after the snowstorm last night.

Walking around the car to meet me, Milo waits for me to lead the way. Together we approach the imposing doors. It feels odd to ring the doorbell of my own house. Even stranger is watching the door open to find our middle-aged butler, Manuel, staring at me. I have never been on this side of the door from him before. He holds his calm demeanor for all of two seconds before breaking into a leathery grin.

"Miss Libby, you're home! We have all missed you very much," he exclaims in his thickly accented English.

I barely have time to open my mouth before he's wrapping me up in one of his bear hugs. When I was little I would run at him so he could grab me out of the air and swing me in a big circle before pulling me into his arms for a hug. He thinks I'm coming home for good. I don't have the heart to tell him this is very likely the last time I will ever see him.

When he finally releases me I step back just far enough that he can't grab me again. "Manuel, I've missed you too. How have you been?"

"Same as always," he says with a wave of his hand. "Now who is this with you, Miss Libby? Not Lance, that's for sure."

"No, sir," Milo says emphatically. "I'm Milo Hanover."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hanover. Have you been taking care of my Miss Libby for me while she's been away?"

Milo laughs. "I've been trying to."

Chuckling at his response, Manuel claps him on the shoulder. "Yes, I can understand that. Miss Libby has always been a little difficult to watch over. She broke three different bones in nine months. Did she ever tell you that? I never imagined one child could have so many accidents until I met Miss Libby."

"I'd love to hear all about them," Milo says, relaxing a little.

"Another time, perhaps," I interrupt. "Manuel, I need to speak to my mother."

He shakes off his pleasure at seeing me and tries to return to his uptight butler mannerisms. He doesn't do a very good job. "Yes, come in. I can't believe I made you stand on the doorstep like a salesman. Not that you even need to ask, Miss Libby. It's your own home, after all. Your mother will be so pleased that you've decided to come home. All the staff has been very concerned about you since you left."

I stop walking and shake my head in disbelief. "Manuel, what did my mom tell you about me not being at home?"

"Mrs. Sparks said that you and she had a disagreement and you decided you needed some space. I assumed you were staying with a friend until whatever you fought about was resolved." His cheerful expression slowly turns into a deep grimace as he realizes that my mother was lying to him. "That's not what happened, is it?"

"No, Manuel, she kicked me out. She is not going to be happy to see me here, but I need to talk to her anyway."

"But why would Mrs. Sparks kick you out of the house, Miss Libby?" he asks.

Sadness replaces my irritation. Manuel always did spend too much time watching telenovellas and not enough time watching the news. "She didn't tell you about what happened at my Inquest?"

"No, Miss Libby. Mrs. Spark doesn't discuss such things with me like your father did."

Manuel pretends to have nothing in his head but the orders my mom gives him, but I know that he was an incredibly gifted artist back in Mexico. He is intelligent and observant, almost to a fault. He caught me sneaking out more times than I can count in the years after my dad died, but he never once told on me. How can he not know about my Inquest? Manuel was one of the few good things about living at home. I won't lie to him.

I push the sleeve of my sweater up and brace myself for his rejection. The ebony colored diktats banding my wrist seem to pulse as I bare them. Seconds pass in silence. The fear and hatred I expect never comes. Only confusion does.

"I don't understand, Miss Libby. Your mother kicked you out for being the Destroyer? I already knew about that. I heard about it that same night. It was all the other servants in the house could talk about for days. I expected your mother to be upset, but I didn't think she would kick you out."

"Why not? She's never been one for compassion or mercy."

"But, Miss Libby, you are her daughter. She shouldn't have turned her back on you because of some twist of fate. You are her blood," Manuel says.

"You should know by now how little that matters to her," I say.

"You are your father's daughter. I know Mrs. Sparks has many faults, but she did love your father. It kept her from abandoning you completely after his death. I thought it would be enough this time as well."

I shake my head. "Not this time."

Manuel takes my hands and squeezes them as if he could apologize to me for my mother's actions. If only he knew the whole of it. Abandoning her only child was among the least of her sins. At least Manuel doesn't seem fazed by my revelation. It is wonderful, and hopeful, to know that he greeted me so warmly knowing full well who I am. If only hormone-driven young men and butlers ruled the world.

"Manuel, I really do need to speak to my mother. Is she here?"

He nods, slow and unhappy. "Perhaps you shouldn't speak to her, Miss Libby. Your mother can be a..."

Several choice words spring to my mind in the brief second he pauses.

"...She can be a vengeful woman if the mood suits her. And she has been in varying types of unpleasant moods lately," Manuel finishes.

"When isn't she in an unpleasant mood? I'll take my chances. Where is she?"

He hesitates, but it seems to be against his nature to ignore a question. "I believe she is still in her quarters, Miss Libby."

"Well, it appears you are wrong once again, Manuel." My mother's frigid voice sends an involuntary chill down my spine.

Chapter 22

Tricks

"I would have thought dropping off your belongings, taking your car, and cancelling your cell phone would have been a glaringly obvious hint that I never wanted to see you again, Libby," my mother says as she glides gracefully down the grand staircase. Her burgundy chiffon dress swirls around her knees. The sound of her high heels clicking on the steps sends a jolt of fury through me with every snap. I can't even force myself to respond to her, my jaw is locked so tight with anger.

I feel Milo approach before he actually touches my shoulder. Carefully controlled anger rolls off of him. He's not even scared. He should be.

"Who's this, Libby, your bodyguard?" Her trifling laugh has an interesting effect on Milo. His anger is suddenly interrupted by laughter. I realize why and smile as well.

"No, Mom. Actually, I'm his. Milo's just here to remind me not to kill you."

I can feel nothing of my mother's emotions, but the quick twitch of her head gives away her worry. Yes, she knows who I am. Best for her if she doesn't forget it.

"What are you doing here, Libby?" she demands.

"We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you, now get out," she says, turning her back on me as if we're done.

If she actually expects me to listen to her she's sadly mistaken. I reach the bottom step before she whips around and snarls at me. "I said get out."

"No."

The only time I ever listened to my mother was when my dad told me to. Her nasty, vile demeanor weakened my respect for her pretty early on. Like around three years old. The only reason we survived living together after my dad died was an unspoken pact of simply ignoring each other as much as possible. My dear mother has clearly not forgotten her lack of power over me. She turns so quickly the hem of her dress snaps as she stamps away from me. My next words shock her into statue-like stillness.

"I know you told Dad about the Serqet."

Her pinky finger starts twitching like mad. "What?" she whispers.

"You told Dad how to perform a Serqet, didn't you?"

"I...I don't know what you're talking about." She won't turn around and face me.

"Grandpa Martin is part of the Veil, and he's as malicious about getting to the top as you are. He told you about stealing people's talents. Anything to get ahead, right? Did you ever try it yourself?" I ask, my voice dripping with hostility.

"No, no, I never tried it."

"Of course not," I say, "or you'd already be dead."

She doesn't respond.

"But you knew about the Serqet. You weren't strong enough to make any use of it, but you thought Dad was. You wouldn't risk your own life, but you risked mine and his. You risked it, and you lost. Dad wasn't strong enough. It's your fault he's dead."

"No!" she screams as she spins to face me. "He _was_ strong enough! He could have done it. I know he could have! Andrew was the most powerful Concealer I had ever met. My father despised Inquisitor Moore for snatching him up before he could. Andrew would have ruled the Veil if it wasn't for you."

"If he'd been strong enough, he wouldn't be dead!" I scream at her. Five years of guilt and self-loathing pour into my voice. "It's your fault I don't have a father anymore!"

Shaking with her own fury, my mother closes in on me. Milo's other hand presses into my side, ready to pull me back at the first sign of her attacking me. Like he would ever be quicker than me. But I love the thought. His presence is enough to ratchet down my anger to a more manageable level. I face my mother without flinching. Not even when her lethal-looking nails grab my chin.

"Your father is dead because you woke up. If you had just stayed asleep like you were supposed to everything would be fine now."

"Except I'd be dead instead of him. But maybe that's what you mean," I sneer.

Her nails grip me harder, but this time it's because she's trying to control her shaking rather than hurt me. "No, Libby. You'd both be alive. He could have done it, taken your talents, and you would have woken up the next morning feeling no different than before. We would still be a family." A broken sob interrupts her train of thought. "You...If you had just stayed asleep none of this would have happened. I don't know why he wanted your talents, but when he asked, I told him what to do. Yes, it would have meant more power, but I would have given him anything. He was my entire world. And you took him from me, Libby."

"I..." Her emotions come flooding over me. She must have released them purposely, because her own immense Perception wouldn't falter just because she was upset. The raw honesty of them feel so alien coming from her. Deep, rending regret, grief wide and unending, loneliness, pain, longing, all so blatant and powerful. One after another, they bash into me until I can barely stand, let alone respond. She has suffered like I have. Five years of guilt and aching. For a brief second I feel closer to her than I have in my entire life.

But like anything good coming from my mother, it doesn't last. Realization of the heartache we have shared quickly turns into anger that she made me suffer alone. We both lost that night, but instead of trying to comfort her daughter, she blamed me and locked me out of her heart and life. At the same moment the emotions pouring out of my mother change as well, from pain of loss to unabashed jealousy and hatred.

"I knew the risks when Andrew asked me how to steal your talents, but I knew he could be the first one to do it. He was stronger than you can even understand, Libby. I never wanted you to be hurt," she says, and I find myself actually believing her. "But given the choice, I would rather have seen you die than him. Yes, I gave him the tool that took him into your room that night, but your selfish refusal to stay out of things that didn't concern you is what killed him. And I will never forgive you for that."

"Things that didn't concern me?" I laugh in morbid disbelief. "Are you kidding me? How is someone trying to steal my talents not something that would have concerned me? They were my talents!"

"You wouldn't have even missed them. You hadn't shown any signs of developing at the time. We had no idea what you would become. And Andrew would have left you something, some talent that would have suited you. He wouldn't have left you with nothing," she argues.

The idiocy of what she's saying makes me laugh in her face. Her perfectly smooth forehead crinkles at the sound.

"He knew," I say mirthlessly. "Dad knew I was the Destroyer, and so did I. I knew before he did. I started manifesting talents the day I was born. When he tried to steal them, it was agony. I felt him trying to rip them out of me. Your _tool_ was what woke me up."

Short, raspy breaths pulse in and out of her chest as my words sink in. The strength in her legs fails, and she slides down to the steps.

"I was just a child, Mom. Eleven years old. It hurt so badly. I didn't know what was going on. What else could I do but try to stop him. You put him there. You were the one who told him what to do. You killed him," I say, "not me."

Tears are pouring down her alabaster cheeks. "He never told me," she whimpers. "I didn't know. I never would have let him do it if I'd known."

I can't keep the acidic edge from my voice. "And you being the daughter of the leader of the Veil, and a Concealer yourself. Your own daughter was the Destroyer, and you didn't even see it."

She looks so broken.

That's why her sudden attack catches me off guard.

Springing off the stairs, she flies at me, knocking Milo back in surprise. My mother has no Strength, but her psychotic, adrenaline-fueled lunge is powerful enough. My scrambled wits and lack of real sleep make it a struggle to react. Her fingers close around my neck before I can finally get my own hands up to force her away from me. I throw her back and call on my Speed to get me away.

In the seconds I have before she gets back to her feet, I close off my emotions so she can't track me or anticipate my moves. I try to blur my focus into seeing what she will do next but her own Concealment strangles my attempt. A brief thought that I need to learn how to do that myself for when the Seekers come after me lodges itself onto my list of things to do should I survive my mother trying to kill me, and disappears from my mind.

This is going to come down to Speed and Strength. The real trouble is going to be beating her without killing her. Although the positively murderous look in her eyes is quickly making that less of a concern. Milo, please don't fail me. As horrible as she is, I can't handle being responsible for both of my parents' deaths.

She's back on her feet, and I tense for her next attack, but she just stands there. She's not giving up. I know her too well for that. She's planning something. Stepping back slowly, I move further away from Milo just in case hurting him is part of her plan. Manuel is standing slack-jawed in the corner, but I doubt my mother will hurt him. It would be too much trouble trying to train someone new. She's still just standing there. Forget this.

I break into a run meant to get me to her side before she can react, but the first step I take sinks into the marble floor. My heart stutters. I look down and am shocked to find the marble I was standing on has turned to slush, its swirling pattern ruined by my foot sinking into it.

How could I forget her Naturalism? Her talent for manipulating natural elements was what inspired me to try and convince everyone I was following in her footsteps. I just never saw it as a weapon. Leave it to my mom to turn the beauty of speaking to the elements of this world into something she could hurt people with. The gelatinous soup pulls me in up to mid-calf, cutting off my musing and sending me back into panic mode.

Desperately I try to pull my foot back out by shifting my weight to my back foot. That foot sinks as well, and I gasp in shock and fear. I shift again and yank my back foot out of the mess. My mom rushing toward me only intensifies my panic. A venomous curse slips out of my mouth as I drop to one side just enough to avoid my mom's slap. With one knee on solid ground, I drag my leg out. Almost out.

My ankle is still trapped when my mother launches her next attack. The marble sucks itself back into shape, trapping my foot in its razor sharp grip. One tiny movement to the side sends the sharp edge of the rock into my skin. Pinned to the floor, my mother seizes her chance. Her hand slams into my face, and my vision pitches wildly. Only the cool green blob of Milo's shirt bobbing up and down in the haze alerts me that he's moving toward us.

"Milo, stay back!" I scream. The green blur stops moving.

"How are you going to protect him now, Little Libby," she asks. Her vicious tone, and her use of the nickname my dad used to call me, clears my vision in a red-tinged wave of hatred.

"Leave him alone."

"Why should I? It only seems fair that since you took the man I loved, I should take yours in return."

She's bluffing. Milo may not have the talents of a Guardian, but he is still a pretty big guy. Her talents aren't going to protect her against brute force. As long as he can get to her before she wraps him in marble or simply convinces his heart to stop beating. She won't. Will she?

"Mom," I beg, "Mom, please don't hurt him."

"You deserve to suffer like I have, Libby." She isn't moving toward him. Yet.

"I have suffered, Mom. I know you loved Dad, but so did I."

"It's not the same. You were just a child. You couldn't have loved him like I did."

She can ferret out the truth behind gossip in a second or locate anything touching a natural element of the world, but she can't see anything beyond her own selfishness. "You say Dad was your whole life, well, he was my whole life too. He cared about me when I knew you didn't. He tucked me in at night while you were out with your friends. He kissed me when I got hurt and held me when I cried. He loved me. He loved me so much that I never felt anything but safe and happy when I was with him, not because of his power and prestige. I loved him more purely than you ever did."

My mother's beautiful face darkens under a mask of malevolence. Maybe that last sentence wasn't such a good idea. She takes several slow steps toward Milo. He glances back and forth between us, unsure of what to do. My mother doesn't seem terribly concerned. "And what about this one?" she asks. "Do you love him?"

She'll know if I'm lying. I'm good at hiding my emotions, but she is a master at breaking through barriers. My throat is trying to strangle me, but the curious look on Milo's face despite what's going on around him dilutes my fear enough to think. Do I love him? I've doubted why he's with me, but despite ample opportunity to leave, he's still here. I know he's hiding something big from me, and I'm scared to death that really letting him in will only get him killed. My hurricane of thoughts and emotions finally center on one simple truth. Despite everything, I can't think of anyone I would rather be with than Milo.

"Do you love him?" she demands as she moves forward.

My answer is simple and honest. "Yes."

The corner of Milo's mouth turns up without ever taking his eyes off my mother. I want to kiss him more than anything right now, but the hateful gleam in my mother's eyes terrifies me. Milo holds his hand up to her as she takes another step, but she won't try to attack him physically. Her focus draws her thoughts inward. I don't wait.

My fingers force themselves into the tiny space between the marble and my ankle, and I heave it back .The edges dig into my flesh, staining everything red. And all I accomplish is crumbling a few pieces. This is taking too long! Terror for what she might be planning spurs me forward. Pulling with my whole body, I try to simply yank my foot from the rock. Fiery hot pain shoots up my leg, making me scream. But I don't stop. I wrench it again. Something pops and grates. Seizing my Strength, I will the pain away and pull again.

"Libby!" Milo calls out, grabbing my shoulders. "Libby, stop it! Just stop, wait a minute. You're hurting yourself."

"I can't," I cry, "she's going to hurt you."

"No she's not. She's not going to hurt me or you. Just calm down for a minute and we'll figure out how to get you out of here."

"What?" I ask, twisting around so I can see his face. He presses his hand against my cheek, and then his eyes slide away from me to where he had been standing a second ago. I follow them. My whole face lights up in shock.

"What happened?" I ask. For some reason my mother is lying of the floor, looking very much like she's unconscious.

"I'm sorry, Libby, but I had to hit her."

"You what?"

He shrugs. "When you screamed she lost her focus, and well, I saw my chance to stop her, so I took it. Sorry. I've never hit a girl before."

"Sorry? Milo, don't be sorry. She was about to kill you. I think that's the one exception to hitting girls."

"I still feel bad about doing it. She's your mom," he says.

I snort at that and try to keep from grinding my teeth, this time from anger instead of the pain pulsing up my leg. "Only by blood." Standing up from his employer, Manuel walks over to us. His hands are visibly shaking, but his voice sounds quite cheerful. "Well, I'm glad that's over, Miss Libby. I have never seen anything quite like that before."

"What, attempted murder?" I ask.

He grimaces and shakes himself.

"Is she alive?" I ask.

"Yes." Manuel sounds a little resigned at that prognosis. "I'll have someone take her to bed when I get the chance, but I think we have more important matters to attend to right now, like getting you out of the floor."

"Yeah," Milo says, "we should probably do that before your mom wakes up."

"Definitely, but I'm not sure I can. I think I might have broken my ankle trying. It hurts like hell right now. Strength is the only thing keeping me from passing out," I say. And even that isn't working very well. My vision swims in warning that I'm not going to be able to hold the pain back much longer.

"Miss Libby," Manuel scolds, "you should know better than trying to pull a foot out of solid marble by brute force. Strength does not make your body impervious to injury. I should think you would be well aware of that fact by now."

"You would think," I mutter.

"How are we going to get her out then?" Milo asks.

Manuel offers him a patient smile. "The same way she got stuck there in the first place."

"You know how to do that?" I ask.

"I have lived with your mother for a very long time. I thought it wise to learn a few of her tricks just in case I ever needed to defend myself," he says. "I would have helped you earlier, but even though I can perform the feat, my talent is nothing close to your mother's. I need to be in physical contact."

"Of course, Manuel," I say.

"Pay very close attention so you can repeat it if the need ever arises again. Which I'm sure it will, knowing you." He smiles playfully like I am five years old again, but this time there is real fear behind his teasing. "Now, lay very still, Miss Libby. When I release your foot the motion may be very painful."

"Milo, if I pass out, you're going to have to carry me to the car again. Sorry."

"Again?" Manuel asks.

"I was asleep, not hurt," I say matter-of-factly.

He nods, but not convincingly. Placing his hands on the floor at either side of my foot, he is about to start when Milo moves into place behind me. Thank goodness. I don't want to smack my head on the ground if I faint. That would really top off my morning. Manuel settles back in to start his work. I watch as the marble starts to twist and soften under his gentle guidance. Every move he makes, every emanation of power that flows from his body into the floor imprints itself on my mind. I feel confident I can imitate him as I start to feel the pressure on my ankle lessen. I can also feel the added pain spreading through my body and cringe. I am not going to last much longer.

"Hey," Milo says.

"What?" I ask, glad for the distraction from the pain. My foot is going to pop loose any second.

"I love you too."

The agony of my foot coming free jolts me into unconsciousness.

Chapter 23

Helpless

The steady beep-beep of medical equipment finally sinks into my brain and pulls me back to the waking world in a nauseating sweep. Getting my eyes open is another trick entirely although I don't really want to open them anyway. My breathing is picking up by the second, reaching near panic very quickly. I need to wake up and find Milo. He's the only thing that will calm me down. My eyes feel like they have lead weights on them. An image from a Jack the Ripper movie I once saw assaults me, reminding me of how people used to put coins on the dead's eyes to pay the ferryman on their way to Hell. My eyes flutter open immediately, no coins falling away like I feared. Milo's concerned face and the antiseptic walls of a hospital greet me.

"Hey, you finally decided to wake up," Milo says.

"You brought me to the hospital?" I gasp as I sit up. I hate hospitals. An irrational desire to have Lance by my side grips me fiercely. He's been there every other time I've been hurt. He knows how to keep me calm, to stop the panic. Thinking about him only adds to my pain, but I can't help wish he were here with me now. My breathing rapidly starts climbing to hyperventilation. My head starts swimming, and I have to grab the side of the bed to keep from tipping over drunkenly. One thing I do notice is that my leg feels much, much better. The bandage indicating a needle prick on my arm might have something to do with that.

"Libby, calm down. Your ankle was dangling like a loose tooth. What else was I supposed to do?" Milo pulls his chair close to my bed and brushes my hair back from my face in slow, soothing motions. Every stroke takes my panic down a notch. "You slept through the worst part, at least. Your leg has already been X-rayed and the bones set back in place. We're just waiting on the doctor to start putting on your cast."

My vision begins to clear as I tap my Naturalism and force my breathing to slow. I lock my gaze on Milo to stave off another wave of panic, forcing away thoughts of Lance. It takes me a moment to focus enough to process what Milo just said. "A cast? Manuel must have died laughing about this."

Milo grins. "Just a little."

"He's hopeless," I mumble through my clenched jaw.

"Funny," Milo says with a laugh, "that's exactly what he said about you."

Maybe it's the drugs, or Milo's ability to somewhat distract me, but I laugh too. Another broken bone. What does that make now, thirteen? Unlucky thirteen, that would definitely make sense. My morphine-induced laughter subsides by the time the door pushes open. I'm shocked to find a familiar face when it opens all the way.

"Doctor Layton?"

"Good afternoon, Libby. It's always nice to see you, though you do know you can come say hello without breaking a bone first, don't you?" he says. His words are as cheerful as they've ever been. I'm immediately suspicious. Everyone else is at least a little nervous around me. What exactly did he give me? My eyes narrow as I scour him for a clue. He notices my reaction and sighs. "Sorry, Libby. I'll admit that when they told me you were here I was nervous, but seeing you laid out unconscious, it sorts of takes away the 'you're going to kill everyone' vibe. You're the same girl I've treated a dozen times before."

There is no deception in what he's saying. I manage to relax a little more. Maybe this will work on the kids at school, too. It's hard to be afraid of the gimpy loser kid hobbling around on crutches. "Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Layton. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else trying to fix me up." Seriously. Hospitals freak me out bad enough without having to go through it with a stranger.

"Nobody knows your bones better than I do, that's for sure." He sits down on his stool and starts the long process of casting my foot. After the first few layers are in place, he says, "You'll have to keep this on for two or three weeks, but it looks like it should heal up fine."

"Two or three weeks?" Milo asks. "That doesn't seem like very long."

"For a normal person, it wouldn't be, but for Libby it's more than enough time. Her Strength makes her heal faster than others," he explains.

"Is that usually how it works?" Milo asks.

Dr. Layton nods. "To some degree. Everyone with Strength heals slightly faster than those without it, but Libby has always astounded me. The first time her dad brought her in, she had fallen out of a tree and broken her wrist. I set it and cast it, and scheduled for her to come back in three weeks to see how she was doing. Imagine my surprise when the X-ray showed the break was completely healed. Normally, Strength speeds up recovery by a couple of days at the most. Not weeks."

One more thing to betray me as a freak. I'm the only one who thinks so, apparently.

Milo has a different opinion. "That's awesome."

"Very," Dr. Layton agrees.

Well, at least they're enjoying themselves. Their reactions do make me smile, though, even if my hands are still shaking. Milo quizzes Dr. Layton about the other weird things my body can do, like withstand more extreme temperatures than others, take more damage before breaking down, go without food or water for longer, and a few other bizarre qualities that only I seem to possess. He keeps it up the entire time Dr. Layton is wrapping me in plaster. I tune them out after a while and try to think about nothing at all until this experience is over. Milo's fingers constantly stroking my arm make that pretty much impossible.

Thinking about him isn't bad, either.

Hours later, Milo carries me into my motel room and gently places me on the bed. After giving me a couple more pain pills, he lies down next to me. "How are you feeling?"

"About my leg, or everything else?"

"About all of it."

"My leg is feeling mildly better, and I don't know what to think about my mom. Confronting her didn't go like I thought it would," I say.

Milo motions toward my foot with a half-smile. "Obviously not."

I roll my eyes. "That's not what I mean. Actually, I figured I would probably get hurt. What I meant was what she said. She really thought me and my dad would make it through the Serqet alive. She wasn't trying to kill me, not that time at least. It doesn't really change anything, now, I guess, but...it makes me feel a little better. Is that stupid?"

"No, of course not, Libby. Your mom's never going to win any parenting awards, but at least you know she did love you in her own way," Milo says.

"Just not enough."

"But I do," Milo says seriously. "I love you very much, and I've been dying you tell you that."

My racing heart puddles in my chest and sends waves of heat barreling through my veins. "I love you too, Milo. I'm just sorry I didn't tell you in a better way. Only my mom could screw something like that up for me."

"I don't care what made you say it. I'm just glad you did." His fingers come up to my face and trace along my cheekbone and jaw. "Actually, I think it's pretty hot that you told me you loved me while you were trying to save my life."

"But I didn't even do it," I complain. "You saved yourself and all I managed to do was break my ankle."

His expression turns conniving. "That's true," he says, "I did save my own life. That was supposed to be your job, Libby Sparks. I think you owe me one, now."

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Let me stay with you for a few days."

More than a little surprised, I'm not sure what to say. I put aside all my doubts when I was faced with my mom's questions, but that doesn't mean they've disappeared completely. "Milo," I begin.

"I never got to finish what I started to say at the dance," he interrupts.

That's true. "What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say that I didn't want you to get back together with your ex-boyfriend because I want that position for myself," Milo says, "and before you say anything, I'm only asking to stay because I want to take care of you. I'm not trying to pressure you into anything. I'll even sleep on the floor."

"Milo..." I can't make him sleep on the floor.

"I don't want to leave you alone."

The honest need in his voice is so hard to resist. "But what about your parents? Even they will notice if you just stop coming home all together."

"That's debatable," Milo says.

"And what about Celia? She spends almost every afternoon with us. Your parents will definitely notice when she doesn't come home. It just won't work," I say.

Milo slides his arm under my head and moves closer to me. "But if I could make it work, you'd let me stay?"

"That's not what I meant, Milo."

"You want me to stay. Admit it," he says, his fingers tracing the curves of my jaw, my ear, my shoulder. Every stroke steals a little more of my concern that this may be a very bad idea. He could get hurt because of me. "Admit it," he says again.

"Yes, I want you to stay," I say weakly. My eyes are still closed, letting me linger in the moment a little longer. "But that's why you can't. Milo, if you get any closer to me you may just end up like my dad. My relationship track record isn't very good. I'm not meant for...for anything good."

Rolling onto his elbow, Milo jostles my leg painfully. I hiss at the pain too sharp for the narcotics I'm on. Milo apologizes immediately, his hand landing lightly on my thigh in an effort to stabilize me. Or maybe he is still trying to convince me, because the way his fingers trail up my jeans to my hip certainly aren't doing anything to drive me away from him. My own fingers start drawing twisting paths over his chest without my permission. Not good, but I don't pull my hand away. Milo pulls in closer. Maybe I should have checked the side effects of these painkillers more carefully.

"Libby," Milo begins. The rough quality of his voice brings heat to my belly. "Libby, what happened today, it scared me. A lot. I know I joke with you about being responsible for saving my life, but you're not invincible. I never thought you were, but watching your mom come after you, I really saw for the first time what danger you're in. I don't want to leave your side."

Hot desire quickly mellows into loving warmth. "Milo, if you think I'm fallible, then you're at even more risk. Just look at today. My mom had me trapped, but she went after you to hurt me even worse. If I weren't so selfish, I would make you stay as far away from me as possible. You can't count on catching a lucky break every time. The more you're with me, the more danger you're in."

Milo's concern twists into bitterness. "Libby, you have no idea how much danger I'm in, but that's not the point. With your ankle broken, you need me here. Strength, Speed, Vision, how much can they really help when you can't even get off the bed by yourself? I won't leave you helpless."

"I'm not helpless," I argue.

"Then get up and walk across the room."

I scowl at him and push up to my elbows. The movement makes my leg twinge, but I can handle it. I sit up all the way and drop my left foot to the floor. That was the easy part. Biting the inside of my cheek I take a deep breath and slide my right foot to the side. A strangled scream catches in my throat, choking me with pain. Milo's hands are on me at once, pushing me down to the pillow and settling my legs back in place. Gentle fingertips sweep across my tear-streaked face.

"You need me to stay, Libby," he whispers. "I need you to let me stay. Please."

Spirits help me, I can't do this. I can't even move. It hurts so badly. I can't face it without Milo, but I know this might not be a temporary thing. Once I agree to him staying, I don't know if I'll be able to give him up. I need him. I need him desperately in so many ways. There isn't anyone else. He is the only person in this world I can turn to for help. Pain, love, narcotics, something smothers my objections, the warnings, everything but my desire never to be away from Milo.

"Okay," I whisper, "but just until I can get around on my own."

His arms wrapped around me painfully. "Thank you, Libby. I promise I'll keep you safe. I love you."

Fear and overwhelming joy wrap themselves around my heart, begging to take up permanent residence. I want to let them, but I have to ask. "You really love me?"

"Of course I do, I just didn't know how to tell you," he says. "I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know how you felt for sure. I wasn't even sure if you wanted to think about a relationship right now. I know what Lance did. That's not easy to get over. I also know how much you're trying to deal with and figure out right now. A boyfriend might not fit into your plans."

Not that his admission really changes my earlier fears, but realizing that his holding off and pulling away when I thought we were getting closer was him trying to help me does explain a lot. I smile and wind my fingers with his. "It might be a mistake, but I'd like to try and fit a boyfriend into my screwed-up life if you really want me."

"I really do, if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Then...I think I should take Celia's advice..."

My pulse jumps, and combined with the medication, my head starts swimming. I'm afraid I might pass out. If I faint, I'll never forgive myself.

"And kiss you."

My racing pulse suddenly slows. Everything slows as Milo's hands gently cup my face. Delicate pressure pulls me toward him and I give up on thinking, breathing, speaking, everything, and close my eyes. He strokes my cheek once and kisses me. My whole world rearranges itself. The throbbing pain is replaced by the feel of Milo's heartbeat under my fingertips. Every care disappears as his breath pulses against my skin. For one moment, I am just a girl being kissed by the guy she loves.

Too quickly his lips leave mine. Milo's hand trails down my skin as he pulls back. The tension that has been haunting him all day evaporates. I would be content to lie next to him for the rest of the day, but an innocent movement of his hand reminds me of something I can't ignore. After what Mr. Walters said last night, this is one thing I need to know. Something I _have_ to know. If Milo is really willing to throw in with me, I think I need to know what I'm getting into as much as he does. Snaking my hand down to his, I move as if to take his hand. My fingertips reach the palm of his hand and stop. Even still, his hand curls around mine.

"Milo," I say, hearing the tremor in my voice that I feared would be there.

"Hmm?"

I take a deep breath and slide my hand back up his arm, just enough that I push back his sleeve and leave my fingers touching his marred diktats. His body stiffens immediately. I regret losing his calmness, but I have to keep going. "Milo, what's a Cipher?"

"You mean like something to unlock a code?" he asks casually.

"Mr. Walters called you Cipher. What does that mean?"

His head shakes back and forth. "It's just a nickname he gave me when we first met."

"When was that? I didn't think you knew him before we met," I say.

"He was my history teacher when I first moved here. I have him again this year," Milo says. I can feel his pulse running like mad beneath my fingers.

"Why did he call you Cipher?"

"Because he knows." The sudden quiver in his voice scares me.

Wrapping my whole hand around his wrist I pull it up so we can both see it. "It has something to do with your diktats, doesn't it? There's something wrong with them. They aren't straight and perfect like they're supposed to be."

"Cipher means zero, nothingness," Milo says quietly.

He says it like it's an answer to my question, but I don't understand. "What does that have to do with your diktats? Why don't they look like they should?"

Milo takes one slow breath, and says, "Because they aren't real."

Chapter 24

Shallow Dreams

"What do you mean they aren't real?" I demand.

"They're not real. They're fake."

How is that even possible? Inquests are _not_ an optional event. Everyone has their Inquest on their sixteenth birthday willingly, or they're hunted down and forced into it. I knew a boy dying of cancer who was bombarded by Inquisitor Moore in his hospital bed.

"How did you get out of having an Inquest," I ask feeling slightly dazed. Could I have done the same thing?

"I didn't."

"But..."

"I thought for sure I was going to be named a member of the Guardian class. I wanted it more than anything," Milo says, "so I went to my Inquest eagerly."

"What happened?"

Milo doesn't answer right away. He lifts the hand I'm holding and stares at the marks on his wrist. The most jagged of the lines deforms even more as he clenches his hand into a fist. "When the Inquisitor started, it was obvious something was wrong. He said my full name...and then nothing. No talents, no name, no class. There was simply nothing for him to tell me. I was nothing."

"I...I've never heard of that happening before," I say.

"Neither had I."

I knew what was coming when I stepped into Inquisitor Moore's house. I knew there was going to be rejection and possibly death. It was horrible, but at least I'd had time to prepare myself for it. Milo was blindsided. His dreams were ripped away in an instant. Memories of the day I finally put the pieces together and realized my own horrible fate crowd painfully into my mind. I know how that feels very well.

"What happened?" I ask.

"The Inquisitor tried again and again. He spent hours trying to make something happen, but my wrist never changed. When he finally gave up he started panicking, raving about the Guardians coming. It was only luck that the resident Guardian was sick that day. I had no idea what he was talking about, but my parents were pretty freaked out too."

"Why were they so scared?" I ask.

He doesn't seem to hear me. His eyes harden as his grip on my hand tightens. "They just kept screaming at each other. Celia started crying, but I was the only one who noticed. I didn't know what to do. She was always just the little snot who bugged me before. Mom and Dad took care of her. I was too busy. Suddenly the roles were reversed," Milo says. Rolling onto his side lets him bury his face in my hair without disturbing my leg. "She was so scared. I stumbled over to her and held her. We listened together as my parents argued with the Inquisitor about what they should do. The Inquisitor kept shaking his head and saying he had to turn me over. I was upset before, but I started shaking as I listened to them. Turned over to the Guardians. Horrible images of what they were going to do to me blocked everything else out."

Forget my leg. I roll, gently, onto my side and press against Milo's chest. The pain of moving stings my eyes, but Milo's whole body curling around me helps to soften the hurt. I don't ask him to go on. I just hope that when he's ready he will. I know better than anyone how difficult it is to hold a secret inside for so long, and how torturous it is to finally let it out. The room dims in the faded pink light of sunset before he speaks again.

"The next thing I knew, I was being pulled away from Celia. She grabbed for me but my mom held her back while my dad and the Inquisitor pinned me to the ground. I fought back but my dad clocking me in the head ended that pretty fast. I was too out of it to see the knife, but I felt it."

My shoulders convulse under the pressure of a horrified shudder. "They cut you? How could they do that? You could have died."

"I almost did," he says quietly. "My dad knew what he was doing but everything was so chaotic. He started cutting and my mom panicked when my blood started pooling on the rug, and bumped my dad. It was a weird feeling, dying. Once I lost enough blood, I just felt tired. I couldn't even feel the cuts anymore. If it weren't for Celia crying hysterically next to me, I don't know that I would have even tried to fight."

"Please don't say that," I say.

Milo kisses my forehead and leaves his mouth hovering over my skin. "Until that night, I thought not becoming a Guardian was the worst thing that could ever happen to me." The bitter tinge to his voice is buried deep, but not hidden. Shallow dreams cut when they shatter just as much as the more profound ones.

"I won't make that same mistake again, Libby," Milo says. "I may not have any dreams of becoming anything now, but I have other things to live for. I won't let go of you, and I won't let my parents do the same things they've done to me to Celia."

"Milo," I say with more than a little hesitation, "I would have been pissed about the way your parents handled things too, but they were trying to protect you weren't they?"

I don't know how I expected him to react, but laughing wasn't on the list at all. Until the anger in his voice turns it into a growl. "Their idea of protecting me was to bribe the Inquisitor and nearly kill me, then throw me back to the wolves. I went back to school two days later with bandages all over my wrist. I was the only one wearing a sweatshirt in May. The Guardians were tipped off somehow, and they came after me in the middle of the night. The idiots started in the wrong room, though. Celia woke up screaming. I was right across the hall from her, but by the time I got to her room one of them had a knife to her throat."

My throat tightens at a similar memory.

"I didn't even think, I just barreled into the room and tackled him like I was back on the field. Strength and Speed couldn't match me with how caught-off-guard he was. The second one, he was on me before I hit the ground. Celia ran for my dad, but I knew he'd never get there in time," Milo says, his voice growing darker with every word. "Somehow I managed to get one of their knives, and the first chance I got I put it into the first Guardian's throat."

My breath catches in my throat and my stomach twists painfully. He killed the Guardian? A subtle shiver runs down my spine at the violence in his eyes as he says it. I have no love for the Guardians, but I have no desire to kill them if I can help it, either. I shudder at the lack of regret in Milo's eyes. I understand the need for deadly force when you're protecting people, but that doesn't mean I don't feel the effects of it. I don't know whether I killed the Guardians that came after me at the mall, but I have nightmares about what I did. Milo's expression makes it clear his sleep wasn't disturbed because of his actions. When he speaks again, I feel myself flinch involuntarily.

"The second Guardian laid me out with a blow to the back of my head and started dragging his friend out the window," Milo said. "I told my parents we should have left as soon as I woke up after my botched Inquest. I still don't understand why the Guardians want me, but I knew staying where people knew us and knew our names was a mistake. But they swore the Inquisitor's bogus report about my Inquest would hold up. They didn't want to upset our lives."

"And Celia almost died," I say quietly, trying to put aside my discomfort with Milo's story and focus on what he needs now.

"If I hadn't gotten there in time they would have murdered her to get to me. My parents let that happen by staying there. I won't forgive them for that. For everything else, maybe, but not for that."

"So it was your idea to move?"

"Out in an empty little border state we could fade into the background and hide from the Guardians. Celia could be safe out here where the closest major Guardian training compound is five hundred miles away." Milo pauses and strokes my hair. "I hoped that Celia would be safe here, and that if her Inquest went as badly as mine did, I could get her away from my parents and disappear into the desert before anyone could stop us."

I sigh and curl against him even more tightly. He responds in kind.

"Meeting me has to be the worst thing that could have happened to you," I say.

"Not hardly."

Shaking my head in frustration, I say, "But you constantly have to dodge camera crews around me. If one of the national reporters gets you on tape the Guardians will know where you are. And I've already nearly gotten Celia killed once. I am horrible for you, Milo."

"No," he says firmly. "Libby, you're the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I wouldn't change meeting you for anything. I love you."

Every time I hear those words on his lips my heart dances to the sound of his voice. My joy is dulled under the weight of what he's saying this time. He loves me and says he doesn't regret getting close to me, but life is never that simple. He's too blinded to see the very real possibilities of how this story we're writing might play out. I was too selfish to see it earlier. I wanted so much to be loved by someone again that I let Milo put himself at risk. Never did I imagine the depth of what he was putting on the line for me. A terrible realization sinks into my heart. I can't let him do it anymore. A little over four months of happiness, it will have to be enough to carry me through to the end. Whatever that end might be.

Tears start forming in my eyes before I even begin to speak. I press myself against Milo as hard as I can, drink in his scent and memorize the contours of his body. Four months, it's probably more than I deserve anyway.

"What if Celia ends up getting hurt, or worse, because of me?" I say. "You can make sure that doesn't happen if you leave me alone. Milo, you can't be with me anymore. I won't have yours or Celia's blood on my hands. I have too much on them already. Please don't ask me to do that, Milo. Please leave."

"No. I won't leave. I'm not going to be one more person that abandons you."

I turn away from him, wincing at the wrenching pain that runs through my leg. My voice is strained and weak when I speak. "I refuse to be the reason you die, Milo. Go, please."

"No."

"Get out of here!" I scream at him.

His hands grab my shoulders and jerk me up to his face. The shock of his brute force overrides the screaming my leg is doing. Defiance so intense it presses me down with its force rolls off Milo in waves. "Stop it," he demands, shaking me again. "Stop it, Libby! I'm not going anywhere. Nothing you say will change my mind. Just stop it!"

"It's a choice between me and Celia," I finally say. It stops him cold. I'm asking him to choose between me and his little sister, a choice he should never have to make. But he has to understand. I have to make him see the truth.

"Why does it have to be one or the other?" he asks quietly.

"In what ending could you ever have us both?"

His eyes blaze with fire. "We stand a better chance of protecting her together."

"No! I'll get her killed, Milo. If I'm in your life she'll never be safe. You know it's true!" I argue, punching against his chest to drive home my point.

Milo shoves me into the bed and straddles my hips. His face glowers a mere inch away from my own. "You want to know what ending will let me have both you and Celia?" He presses down on me, his intensity bordering on frightening. "I get the woman I love and the sister I would die to protect by helping you do what you were born to do. Destroy the people hunting us, and I get my wish."

My mind stutters in shock. "You...you want me to go against the Guardians? Are you serious?"

The cold glint that was in his eyes when he talked about killing the Guardian in Celia's room returns. I've seen Milo get angry, several times. I can handle his anger. This goes way beyond that. There isn't a wild fury in him driven by being in the moment, just a stone cold hatred and desire to return the pain they caused him. It frightens me more than the idea of attacking the Guardians.

"I've wanted to kill them all since the night they tried to murder Celia. They aren't protectors, they're mercenaries. I dream of finding that second Guardian and ramming his own blade into his heart," Milo says. I can't stop myself from pulling away from Milo a little. He's so focused on his dreams of vengeance he doesn't notice. A shiver ripples through my spine. Then a second, but for a completely different reason.

"Is that why you didn't ignore me?" I ask. My bottom lip quivers like a frightened child, but in this moment I feel like I am seven years old again, teetering on the brink of having my world pulled out from under me. "You saw me as a way to get revenge?"

Milo's eyes widen, and his grip softens and slips off my shoulders to the pillow behind me. Any hint of the darkness that consumed him a moment ago disappears completely. "No," he says, "no, of course not."

"Then why?"

"Because the sullen pout on your lips was so adorable I couldn't resist." His slow smile spreads and threatens to make me forget why I questioned him in the first place.

His irresistible charm won't work this time. The memory of his cold eyes haunts me. "Milo, I'm serious. You knew who I was when you talked to me. Why?"

"Because I knew who you were before Lance stood up in class," he says. I start to argue with the impossibility of that, but he doesn't let me. "I don't mean you being the Destroyer. I mean you, Libby Sparks. Lance was the only thing in your head before, but you were in mine. I never understood before your Inquest why such a smart and beautiful girl like you was so quiet and reserved. I guess I should have known you had a secret, given my own experience with them, but I wasn't about to let a little thing like you being the Destroyer stop me when I finally had a chance to get to know you."

My heart begs me to believe him. Is it really too much to ask for one relationship not tainted by lies and betrayal? I just don't know if I can trust what he's saying. He wants so badly to crush every last Guardian into the ground. And he wants me to help him. My Perception is hammering away, telling me he believes what he's saying, but does that make it true?

"Libby," Milo says, his voice alluringly soft, "I promise you that I had no other thought in my mind other than kissing your pouting lips that day. I hated that Lance hurt you, but I wanted to take his place. I wanted you, not a weapon."

He leans in closer. The heat of his body is stealing my breath. Tingling dizziness spreads from my chest to my fingertips and toes.

"I still want you, Libby. More than anything, I want you."

"But you want me to go after the Guardians," I manage to say in a breathy whisper.

"I'll go after them regardless. I think it would be a step toward solving both of our problems. Having you with me will help, yes, but the choice is yours."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I won't ask again," he says, "but I won't leave you either. So stop asking."

His unguarded emotions cover me in his love and his honest desire to share my life no matter the risk. I don't want to doubt him. Someone else with the same ambition might see me as a tool to be used before a woman who needed a soft touch, but I tell myself that Milo isn't that person. Passion and anger burns in him as fierce as any other warrior wannabe, but it is tempered with concern for me.

The deep-rooted desire to protect and care for others has to be stronger than his darker desires. They have to be. He's shown me so many times how much he wants to do good. That stuff earlier, it was only there for a few minutes. That isn't the real Milo. The real Milo is the one stroking my skin, radiating love. Although he is a teenage boy kissing a pretty girl. That can cloud a guy's mind pretty quickly and make them forget just about anything else.

"You can't stay with me and go after the Guardians at the same time," I say.

His old casual shrug makes a return. "I'll figure something out."

"You know I won't let you go alone. You know I'll come with you whether I want to or not." It's an accusation, but not one filled with malice. It's just the truth. I couldn't let him face that alone.

"It's a possibility," he admits, "but I have a feeling that if you really want to stop me, you'll have a pretty easy time of it."

"You think so?" I ask.

He nods before touching my lips, lightly at first then more hungrily. My lips part as his tongue glides over my bottom lip. Need so desperate it can never be sated races through my veins. Milo lowers his body gently to mine as his mouth wanders down my neck. My mind begs him silently to keep going, to explore every inch of my skin. I reach up to tangle my fingers in shaggy hair that is no longer there, and find myself simply pulling him closer. He groans and pulls back.

"No," I whisper. I don't want him to stop. I want him to erase the past few days, erase my doubt. I want his body to be the only thing in my mind.

Milo offers me one last kiss and rolls onto his back.

"Milo..."

His fingers wrap around mine but he doesn't come back. "Libby, you're doped up on some serious drugs. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

"But..."

"Libby, when you're thinking more clearly, if you still want to, I'll be more than willing. But not now, not when you might regret it later."

That taste of his passion is intoxicating. I can't imagine ever not wanting to bask in it, but as my thoughts grow more and more fuzzy I start to realize that _later_ might be a good idea.

Chapter 25

Boiling Mercury

Anger can overcome rational thought with barely any effort at all, but curiosity can be just as powerful. The second I arrive on campus with my casted foot and crutches people turn to stare. Concern tempered by amazement makes their eyes linger. I hobble across the blacktop under their wondering stares. I hear more than one person whispering their questions about how _I_ could have gotten hurt.

"Isn't she supposed to be too powerful for that?"

"Who was strong enough to hurt her?"

"Is she right, after all?"

"She can't be the Destroyer with a broken leg."

My foot is throbbing, but there is a secret smile hiding behind my grimace. Milo leans down next to my ear as we reach my locker, and says, "Thirteen must be your lucky number."

"Must be. Nobody ever cared this much about the other dozen times I broke a bone," I agree.

This whole thing could backfire in an instant if anyone found out I pretty much did this to myself, but of the four of us who know what really happened, the only one who would even think of telling would be my mom. And admitting to the world that she tried to kill her own daughter, and failed, just isn't something she's likely to do. Milo kisses me goodbye at the door to my first class and heads off to his. My first three periods are filled with whispers and guarded stares, but fairly uneventful. They're so quiet I doze off several times during each one.

Guardian training puts an end to my mini-naps. The click-clack of my crutches on the gym floor draws Coach Clement's attention at once. He speaks to me for the first time in months. "Libby, what on earth happened to you?"

"I, uh, tripped while I was doing sprints up the bleachers over the weekend." It's a lame excuse, but the only reason I would be sprinting up bleachers would be to try and improve in his class. A little extra guilt for the compassionate coach isn't going to hurt him.

He makes the connection and his frown deepens. I hobble over to him and tug a piece of paper out of my back pocket. "Here's a note from my doctor. It wasn't a very bad break, so I should be back after Christmas."

It's another lie, but I can't very well tell him I am a freakishly fast healer due to my phenomenal Strength without cancelling out what I've accomplished today. Coach Clement buys the lie without blinking.

"Take as much time as you need, Libby. I've been pushing you so hard. I don't want you training again until your doctor says it okay. Just take a seat on the bleachers for now. Watch the drills and pay close attention to the technique. If you need anything just let me know," he says.

"Uh, thanks," I say, a little taken aback by his abrupt shift from hating me to wanting to help me. Maybe he isn't quite as power hungry as most of the other Guardians are. I lost faith that any of them really cared about protecting people a long time ago. Like the third or fourth time they dragged me back to my house kicking and screaming after sneaking out at night. Coach Clement nods and walks back to the center of the court to start class.

I didn't even notice Lance wasn't already here until he comes racing through the doors. The moment he sees me, his eyes bug out of his head. He takes a step toward me, but Coach Clement calls him over. His duffle bag drops with a thud. Four long seconds pass where his expression races through a dozen different emotions before he turns and walks over to join the group.

As confused as I've been about Lance, I wasn't sure how he would react, but his eyes keep darting back to me every few seconds. His distraction makes his performance suffer greatly. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as he bumps into his classmates over and over again. The frustration in his eyes is more than amusing. And the alarm on my phone doesn't improve things for him. Or for anyone, actually. The whole class turns to look at me as I try to get my phone out and reset the alarm.

"Sorry," I say to Coach Clements as he approaches me. "I need to go take my pain medication. I didn't mean to disrupt class. I'll just go out to the water fountain."

My struggle to stand up has him reaching for my arm to help, but somebody else gets there first. "I'll help her," Lance says.

Coach Clement frowns for a moment, and then probably after considering Lance's inability to focus today, he nods his agreement. That taken care of, he walks back to the floor and picks up where he left off. I'm having a harder time doing the same. Lance's grip on my upper arm is gentle enough, but his touch seems to leech away all my strength, and my ability to think. I stand there in a stupor for way too long before remembering what I was doing.

"I...I need my pills out of my bag," I say. His familiarity with my belongings leads him right to the side pocket where I keep all the stuff that usually goes in my purse. He palms the pill bottle and starts leading me to the hallway. Neither of us says another word until we reach the fountain.

He hands the bottle over and asks, "Libby, what happened?"

"I fell." He steps closer and I nearly trip myself trying to move away.

"What really happened?"

Of all the times for him to be in tune with my emotions. "What?" I snap. "You don't believe me? You've seen me in class. You know how many times this has already happened."

"No, I don't believe you."

"Why not?"

He shakes his head and throws his arms up. "I don't know, Libby, I just don't, okay? You're usually pretty ticked off about getting yourself hurt, but you almost seem glad about it this time. You're lying and I know it."

The entire time we were dating he never once picked up on the subtle hints I would try to give him about one thing or another. Now he decides to pay attention. "My ankle is killing me. I am not happy about it."

"You're happy about something," he accuses.

"Maybe it's just nice to have people acknowledging that I exist again!"

"What really happened?"

He's not going to let this go. Maybe if I tell him the truth he'll just leave me alone. "My mom. I went to see my mom. It didn't go very well."

The intimidating quality of his stance softens. "Your...mom?"

I nod. He knows our history better than Milo ever will. He's lived it with me. More times than I care to remember, he whisked me away after a fight with her to cry or just escape and blow off my anger. His arms wrap around me in a motion so familiar I can't seem to resist.

"Libby, I'm so sorry," he says softly.

For a brief moment I am back in time, back when my life made some kind of sense, back when I knew what my future held, back when I wasn't an outcast. Back before Milo.

Milo!

I jerk back from him and bump into the water fountain. Lance tries to follow. My hand slaps against his chest. "Lance, what are you doing?"

"Libby, I miss you," he says. "I miss this." His fingers reach up and brush against my cheek. My head begins to tilt toward him purely on instinct. I catch myself and snap my head back up.

"You left me, remember? You don't get to miss me." He shouldn't even get to think about me anymore. His presence becomes oppressive instead of inviting. Every hateful glare and snide remark I've gotten from him in the past few months crowds to the front of my mind, pushing out the times I thought he was trying to help me. My hands clamp down on my crutches. The rubber grips bulge under the pressure. "Lance, please just leave me alone. I don't want to do this with you."

Lance's hands slip between my crutches and past my waist to plant themselves on the fountain behind me. He's a safe distance away until his feet move to straddle mine, bringing his chest barely an inch away from me. "Well, I _do_ want to do this with you right now, Libby. I want you to tell me that you don't miss me too."

"Lance, I'm with Milo now. Please leave me alone," I beg.

"I won't. I want you back. Please, Libby."

Push him away. Slap him. Bite him. Anything to stop him from speaking. I don't want to hear the words I would have given anything for the day after my Inquest. "Lance, you know who I am."

His head drops down, touching lightly on my shoulder. "I was wrong, Libby. Everything I've done to you, I would take it all back if I could. I was scared. That night, I didn't even think before I jumped up. Guardian Clement has drilled into me a desire to kill you for the past year. Before you joined class we had drills every day to react, to kill, as soon as we heard the name Cassia. I reacted out of habit, brainwashing, whatever! I didn't want to hurt you."

Lance looks back up and meets my eyes. "That's what I wanted to tell you at the dance, that it was all an accident."

"But you didn't because Angus and those other idiots would have heard you."

"You're right," he says with shame in every syllable. "I've never felt worse than I did that night after seeing the look on your face. I couldn't stand it. When Angus confronted me about my loyalties to the Guardians, I couldn't do it anymore. There was no way I could stand there and tell him I believed you were evil. For the first time since your Inquest I made the right choice and stood up for you. It's what I should have done from the beginning, but I was too big of a coward."

My mouth opens, but I can't immediately form any words. The ache I have been carrying around with me for months is threatening to wither. It all makes perfect sense. But does that matter? Can I excuse his actions because he has a good excuse? Indecision poisons me, weakening my resolve to be angry at Lance. One fault in his logic finally brings my voice back.

"Then why did you run away after my Inquest if all of this is actually true? Why did you tell everyone what had happened the next day? Why have you terrorized me more than anyone else in this entire school?" I ask. Every reason he just gave seems to crumble in my mind. Tears more exquisite than anything ever induced by my mother careen down my face. "You made everyone hate me, Lance. If you had shut up about it, pretended like nothing had changed everybody would have followed along. But you didn't. You made my life hell! You! You were supposed to love me, protect me from crap like this, not instigate it! You betrayed me. Am I just supposed to forget that and throw my arms around you now?"

Lance cracks under my barrage. "Libby, I...I know what I did was horrible. I hate myself for hurting you. I just didn't know what to do!" he says, his deep voice cracking. "I snapped when the Inquisitor named you. I ran because I was afraid I'd do it again. Afterward, when the adrenaline finally wore off, I couldn't believe what I'd done. I told my dad everything. I asked him what to do. I wanted to call you and apologize right away, but he wouldn't let me. He said I had to stand up for what I believed in, what I have trained for, no matter what.

"Howe threatened to kill Inquisitor Moore's daughter if he helped you. You think he didn't make the same threats to my dad? To me? My dad convinced me I had to be the most outspoken against you or Howe would come after me. He's still afraid Lazaro will do something just because we were friends. My dad told me I could never have you again, but the biggest reason I turned everyone against you was to protect you. If they were scared of what you might do, they'd be too scared to try and hurt you. It was all I could do."

The feel of his hands moving around my waist makes my whole body constrict. I don't want this. I don't care about his excuses. I don't believe him. I refuse to believe him. He was too convincing to ever let me believe it was all an act. I won't let him tell me he was only doing it for me. He would have stayed with me if he wanted to protect me. But as his body leans up against mine I can feel my resolve weakening. Before that night, I never believed he would hurt me. I convinced myself that his watching and interfering with Angus was him still trying to protect me. Could I possibly have been right about all of it?

"I don't care anymore, Libby. My dad can keep me out of the Guardians all he wants, but I can't do this to you anymore. I can't keep pretending to hate you. I abandoned you and you got hurt again. I believe you that there must be some mistake in what happened to you. I was too blind to see it before now. I never want to see you hurt again," he says. His cheek presses up against mine as his fingers caress my back. My own hands are still clamped down on the crutches, almost to the point of snapping them in half, but they are begging me to run them up and down his back.

"Libby, please give me another chance. I love you. I always have."

I am too shocked to respond. My lack of immediate rebuff emboldens him. He moves so quickly, drawing his lips up against mine. My heart breaks, shatters. This is what I wanted from him that night. All I wanted in the whole world. But he didn't give it to me. Instead he attacked me. Can I really ever forgive that? I don't know, but I can't decide right now.

"Stop it, Lance," I mumble under his lips. He doesn't stop. His kiss becomes more forceful, begging me to melt under his passion like I used to. "Stop it! Stop it, Lance. Please."

"Please, Libby," he begs in a rushed breath without stopping.

The crutches clatter to the floor as I run my run hands up his chest. He shivers in delight until I shove him away. "Get away from me, Lance!"

Shock coats his features. Whether it's from my refusal or the force I used to push him away, I don't know, but I don't think he does either. "Libby..." he says. His voice is laced with the pain of rejection. I can see it in his eyes, in his slumped shoulders and rocked stance. "Libby, please don't do this to me."

Anger rises like boiling mercury. I have every intention of slapping him as hard as I can, well as hard as I can without killing him, and screaming my hurt in his face until my throat explodes, but I momentarily forget about my leg. My step forward brings a whole different kind of pain. I cry out and slump to the ground, my crutches scattering. Lance has me in his arms a fraction of a second later. Pain tries to override everything else but I refuse to give in to it.

"Put me down," I growl through gritted teeth.

"No. You're hurt. I won't let you get hurt again."

My hand reaches up to his face. There is no softness in my touch as I grab his chin, pulling so his eyes are scant inches from mine. The hope in his eyes makes me want to crush the strong, square jaw that makes girls drool over him. He actually thinks I'm going to kiss him. My fingers tighten reflexively, drawing a wince from him.

"Put me down," I demand. "I don't need you to protect me anymore."

"Anymore? I've been protecting you this whole time! I watch your back every second I can. I've stopped Angus from attacking you more times than you know. Protecting you is one thing I never stopped doing."

Confirmation of my suspicions about Lance douses my anger like cold water. I can't put the same venom into my voice as I did a few seconds ago. "Lance, it isn't your job to keep me safe anymore. It's Milo's."

"Why?" he demands. "Why Milo instead of me? He's nobody, some freak transplant from who knows where with barely one worthless talent to his name. There is something wrong with him, something very wrong. I don't know what it is yet, but he's hiding something. You can't seriously want to be with that guy. Why him?"

This time I do slap him. Prideful anger hardens his features. He sets me back on the ground stiffly and I cling to the fountain for support. "Don't talk about Milo like that, Lance. You have no business making judgments about anyone else at this point."

"I'm better than him and you know it," Lance argues.

I scoff at his delusion. "You want to know why Milo and not you? Because Milo never would have abandoned me like you did. Your daddy scared you into turning on me. Howe threatened you? Well, he threatened me too! You think you're so powerful because you're training to be a Guardian, but if you really had any strength, you would have stood up to both of them. You wouldn't have left me. I'm not going to take you back and wait around for your guilt and hormones to wear off so you can walk out on me again. I'm not stupid enough to fall for your promises a second time."

If I had my crutches I would walk away now, but since I can't even bend down to get them without falling over, I have to settle for turning away. Lance just won't let up. He grabs my shoulder and turns me back around. The intensely possessive glint in his eyes startles me. "I won't walk away from you again, Libby. I was wrong to do it the first time, no excuses, no asking for forgiveness. I was weak, stupid, a coward, call me anything you want, but I promise you I will never leave you again."

I can feel the honesty in his claim, but apparently he doesn't think that will be enough.

Lance's hand leaves my shoulder, presses against the Guardian emblem on the hilt of his dagger, then to his forehead and heart. I watch each step feeling like I am trapped in a Matrix-style slow motion scene. My whole body is trembling. The motions he just showed me, I know them very well. A Guardian Oath is binding, physically binding. The band of diktats on Lance's wrist blaze scarlet, like they have just been raised, then fade back into the puckered white of scarred flesh. His body tightens as the oath imprints itself onto his being, but his eyes are aglow with defiant pleasure. Every ounce of my weight falls against the fountain, my one good leg threatening to buckle and drop me again.

"What did you just do?" I whisper.

"It was the only way I could make you believe me, Libby."

My head starts shaking back and forth. "No, no, no, no. Lance, what have you done?"

"I did what I had to. I'll never leave you. I couldn't even if I wanted to now," he says. He seems to find some kind of humor in that.

Oh please, there has to be some way to reverse this. There has to be. I can't walk around linked to Lance. Please, I beg, even though I know there is no hope. "I don't want you, Lance."

"You will," he says. "I know you will." The back of his fingers trail down my cheek. My whole body shivers in fear of that statement coming true.

Anger and confusion battle for control of me. Anger wins easily. I shove him away from me, and say, "Get away from me, Lance. Leave me alone, now."

Lance takes a step closer to me despite my demand. A voice from behind me stops him and causes his face to darken to an angry black.

"She said she wants you to leave, Lance. I think you should respect her wishes," Milo says.

Gratitude bubbles in my chest, followed immediately by dread. How long has he been standing there? I didn't think I could feel any worse than I did a moment ago, but I am horribly wrong. Only a long, deep breath keeps me from losing everything in my stomach. Please let him have just walked up. Please, please, please.

"Are you going to try and make me leave, Milo?" Lance sneers. "What a laugh. You can't do a thing to me."

"I think you'd be surprised by how much I can do to you if I really want to, Lance." Milo stalks forward, facing Lance without a hint of concern or doubt.

Lance takes it as a challenge. "Fine. You want to see what a Guardian can do? I'd be more than happy to show you." His right hand clenches into a fist as his shoulder rotates into the beginning of a punch that I know will be backed with everything he has. Lance doesn't do things halfway. I reach forward in the fraction of a second it takes Lance to move in an attempt to stop him. Milo's own fist barrels past me. Blood blossoms on Lance's face. He flies back into the wall and slides to the floor with a thud. He stares at Milo in complete and total shock. I'm pretty sure I have the same expression on my face. He never should have gotten to Lance so fast.

"Who are you?" Lance asks, blood bubbling and bursting on his lips as he speaks.

Milo's grin is fierce and slightly terrifying. "Just some freak transplant," he says.

My heart drops. Lance said that before the Guardian Oath. Milo must have seen everything. Was he there before that, too? Did he see Lance kiss me? This is worse than my Inquest. At least at my Inquest I had the hope of dying. The fact that both of these two are intent on saving me means there's no escape from the humiliation.

Milo picks up my crutches and hands them back to me. I slip them into place completely numb. Milo presses his hand into the small of my back but turns toward the still bleeding Lance before guiding me away. "Oh, and Lance," he pauses, glancing down at his fist, "I think you might be right about me hiding something. Have fun trying to find out what it is."

Chapter 26

Found

After Lance stomps away to go clean himself off, Milo's hand drops from my back and he does a little stomping of his own. Right out of the school. I'm confused, repulsed, and scared, but I know I have to follow him. My limping half-run hurts horribly. I push the pain away and barrel through the doors. Milo is halfway to the football field. I call out to him, but he doesn't turn around. When I cross onto the grass the rubber tip of my crutches sinks into the soft soil, yanking the crutch out from under me and sending me sprawling to the ground.

The heated string of curses that flies out of my mouth is enough to stop Milo. He walks back to me slowly, but doesn't help me up. Anger surrounds him like a storm cloud. Guardian or not, he could have passed for one given his build, stance, and murderous glare. I can't help shrinking back into the grass just a little. He saw everything. There is no doubt in my mind that he saw the kiss. It's a miracle he stopped at punching Lance in the face.

"Milo, look, I know you're mad," I start.

His face is impassive but he can't fool me. "Don't do that to me, Libby," he demands. "Don't sift through my emotions like game pieces you can twist and play with. You know I can't block you. The least you can do is keep out of my head."

Something about what he's saying hits me as wrong. It will have to wait, though. "You're pissed at Lance. I get that, but..."

Bitter laughter explodes from his chest. "Lance? Sure, I'd like to punch his pretty face a few more times, but..." He doesn't finish because his jaw tightens too much to let any more words out.

Realization hits me right in the gut. "You're mad at me?"

"What? You think I shouldn't be?" he scoffs.

"I..." I didn't ask Lance to do any of what he did. It wasn't my fault. But I can't make myself argue with him. Not with the guilt swirling around inside of me.

"What were you even doing with him, Libby? I get out of class to come find you and make sure you were able to take your pain medication, and you're standing in the hall making out with your ex-boyfriend! Why the hell would I be mad about that?" His hands fly up then smack down on the top of his head.

"I wasn't making out with him!"

Milo rolls his eyes. "Right, right, _he_ kissed _you_. There's a huge difference."

His sarcasm infuriates me. I yank my crutch out of the ground and get myself back to my feet on my own. "He _did_ kiss me! Did it look like I was kissing him back? _You_ should know that if I'm enjoying a kiss I do a little more than stand there with my hands at my side."

"Well, you certainly weren't trying to get away from him," Milo accuses.

"I was in shock, for crying out loud! The last time I saw Lance, he was glaring at me and trying to incite riots against me. He caught me completely off guard!"

Milo stalks a few feet away from me and hangs his head. "But you wanted him to say all that stuff, didn't you."

"Yes, I did," I admit, "but I wanted him to say it the night of my Inquest. Now...it doesn't matter what he says now. It doesn't change the past few months."

"You didn't enjoy hearing him say he's still in love with you and begging you to take him back? You can't honestly tell me that didn't affect you at all."

Managing anything even remotely romantic while tethered to crutches is impossible, so I have to make do with limping over to him and laying my head on his chest. "The only part of me that enjoyed that conversation was the vindictive part that has been begging me to punch him for leaving me in the first place."

"Do you want him back?" Milo asks quietly.

I don't even have to think about it.

"Milo, I want you." That much I'm not confused about. Everything Lance said, I believe it. He was a coward for not standing up for me, but he never abandoned me completely. I believe him, but I'm not sure what I will do with that knowledge yet. Forgiveness? Acceptance? What I do know is that I don't want to lose Milo.

"Libby," Milo says quietly, "he's right about me, you know. What Lance said is true. I'm nobody. Fewer talents than he even thinks and hunted by the Guardians. I can't protect you like he can."

"He has to protect me whether he wants to or not, now," I mutter, "but that's not the point. Even if Lance was my only chance at survival, I still wouldn't take him back as my boyfriend just because he said he was sorry. I'll use him, for sure, but just his talents. I won't walk away from you just because Lance has a better chance of protecting me."

The tension I was hoping would fade from his shoulders doesn't happen. Milo looks up at me, but his face looks even more clouded than before. "What was Lance talking about when he said he'd been watching your back this entire time? He didn't mean that literally, did he?"

"Actually, he did," I say, fearing this one little secret will send Milo into another fit of anger.

"What? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was afraid of what might happen if I told you." Seeing the frustration in Milo's eyes, I hurry on. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Milo. I was worried about how you would react, how Lance would react if you confronted him. I thought you two would get in a fight. I can't stand the idea of you getting hurt."

"Libby, what if he had been spying on you instead of watching out for you? How do you know he's telling you the truth?"

"I think he already proved he was protecting me. Lance really has helped me out. Angus tried to attack me in gym and Lance stopped him. And I think Angus was going to try something at the dance, too, but Lance wouldn't let him." I take a deep breath. "I know Lance has made a lot of mistakes with me, but I do believe him on this. Lance has never once lied to me. All I can do is ask you to trust me on this."

Milo still seems angry and pretty far from taking my word about Lance, but apparently he has too many other questions to fight me about it at the moment. "What did you mean when you said Lance has to protect you now? What was that thing he did with his diktats?"

My body goes cold. He saw, but he didn't know what was happening. I forget sometimes that Lance knows a lot more about being a Guardian than most people because of his dad. Guardian Oaths aren't discussed much outside the brotherhood. My eyes close as I mentally berate myself for my stupidity. If Milo never knew what Lance did, all the better for everyone involved. I had the chance to keep him out of it, and I blew it. Regardless of the fact that his phony Perception talent will do nothing to catch me trying to deceive him, I can't lie to Milo. He is the one person I don't have to pretend around.

"Libby?" Milo asks, even bringing his hand to my cheek to entice me to answer him.

I fall for the lure and open my eyes. "Have you ever heard of a Guardian Oath?"

"No," he says slowly. "Is that something you have to take before becoming a Guardian?"

"No, anyone who's been named into the Guardian class can make a Guardian Oath." I take a deep breath. It would be so easy to give him some vague, meaningless answer. "It's a promise to protect someone. I don't really understand how it works, but somehow a person's Speed and Strength are able to be dedicated to one person or group above anyone else."

"What do you mean _dedicated_?" Milo asks, his voice growing tight.

"It's irreversible. Most Guardians give their Oath when they're inducted, promising to protect the people under their stewardship. It's binding in every way. The Guardians have to act to protect the people they serve or they'll regret it, painfully," I explain.

I try to ignore the rage pouring off Milo like he so politely asked me to do, but it's impossible. It's way too strong. "That's what Lance did?" he asks.

I nod.

"What does that mean exactly, for you and him?"

"It m-means," I say, the quiver in my chin making it hard to speak clearly. "It means that he can feel when I'm in trouble. He'll have to come help me, or he'll experience the worst pain imaginable. When he feels my need, he'll know exactly where to find me, too. Depending on the strength of the link between us, he may be able to find me even if I'm not in trouble."

I do not add that Lance's Speed and Strength are ridiculously powerful. Guardian Clements comments on it frequently, convinced he's stronger than he is and not even at his full potential. I have no idea how that, and my own power, might affect the link, but I doubt it's anything good.

"What about you?" Milo asks. "Can you feel it when he's hurt, or whatever? Do you have to rescue him, too?"

"No." Thank goodness. Knowing he can feel me makes my skin crawl. The last thing I would ever want is to be able to feel him in return. "The Oath is completely one sided. I have absolutely no compulsion to help him."

"Good," Milo says darkly, "because I'm going to kill him."

Oh, crap. He means it.

"Milo..." He's already walking away from me, into a den of would-be Guardians just itching to try out their talents on something other than practice dummies. "Milo, stop! Wait!"

"Libby Sparks!" calls a breathless woman from behind me.

I shake my head and hurtle myself forward with my crutches to catch Milo. Probably just some overzealous teacher on ditching patrol. "Milo! Please, just wait. Milo!"

Muted speaking behind me catches my ear and sends a jolt of dread straight through me.

"This is Caroline Gomez for Channel Seven News trying to catch up with the fleeing Libby Sparks."

"Milo!" I scream. The panic in my voice stops him. Finally. He turns and his own eyes widen.

After what happened with my mom, there's no way I want to face down a pack of reporters, but as I watch Milo's face drain of its color I realize my mistake. Our eyes meet and I can see the indecision in them. Help me get away, or risk being caught on camera. I can't ask him to make the choice. My crutches dig into the grass as I come to an abrupt halt. I pinch my crutch under my arm and motion for him to run. He cringes and takes a step forward.

"Go! Hurry up!" I call, careful not to use his name again.

"Libby Sparks," the winded reporter blurts out from right behind my ear.

I spin awkwardly to face her. She's shoving a microphone in my face, but her camera man isn't paying any attention to me. Instead, his lens is focused on Milo's retreating form. He's almost back to the school, but with how close the reporter was to me when he turned around, there's no way he had enough time. Caroline Gomez's questions wash over me in a daze.

Milo has just been found.

Chapter 27

Noise

The intrepid reporter Caroline Gomez has no idea of the story she's breaking with her report. The blurbs of me refusing to answer any of her questions about what happened to my foot flicker across the screen, ignored by both me and Milo. The picture they flash of Milo's startled face—they didn't catch his name, thank goodness—only airs for two or three seconds, but we both know it will be more than enough time for the Guardians to identify him. We watch the entire piece in silence.

Only when the pleased reporter finally signs off do we turn away from the restaurant's TV mounted above our booth. We thought it best to be in a public location when the story aired, hoping the numerous people around us would put off any immediate attack. Caroline Gomez's smile is forgotten along with my hope. "Milo, I'm so sorry," I whisper.

His cell phone rings and he snaps it open. "Well?" he asks. I can't hear the response, but a second later his shoulders slump and he sighs in relief. "Thanks, Celia. I owe you big time for this." He listens again. Then groans. "Fine, I did promise you anything you wanted. I'll take care of it."

A few seconds later he closes the phone. It drops to the table and he sighs.

"Good news?" I ask.

"Well, that depends on how you feel about ballet," he says. "I just promised to take Celia to the Nutcracker at Popejoy Hall this weekend. I hate the ballet."

"That's not what I meant," I say drily, "but I happen to love the ballet. I see the Nutcracker every year. Did she keep your parents from seeing the news tonight?"

His demeanor turns more serious as he nods. "She threw a temper tantrum about them not letting her go with her friend up to their cabin in Colorado for Christmas. She didn't actually want to go, but it turned out to be the perfect excuse."

I'm relieved, of course, but it only goes so far. "Milo, is that really going to help, though? What if someone they work with saw it and mentions it to them? They're going to find out eventually."

"I know," he says.

"They'll want to leave, hide you and Celia again."

"I know."

"Maybe you should go," I say, "at least for a little while. Your parents aren't even the real problem. Guardians are going to come after you. I can't even help protect you with my leg the way it is."

"You can't protect yourself either," he reminds me.

Right away I know that isn't true, not with Lance around, but I don't care to point that out right this minute. "Milo, I know you're worried about Celia."

His eyebrow quirks up. "You know?"

"Because I know how much you love her, not because I'm digging into your emotions." My eyes roll as I say it. Now that I know his Perception was just a big act, he's very adamant that I keep my own talents to myself. It's really irritating. "Milo, I have spent years trying to block other people's emotions out. Believe me when I say I'm not purposely trying to intrude. I hate having other people's feelings inside my head. The only time I ever get anything from you is when your emotions are really strong. And that's not something I can do anything about."

Milo accepts my explanation, but that familiar note of something not fitting like it should creeps into my mind. I felt the same thing earlier today when Milo got mad at me because he thought I was intruding on his emotions. My brow crinkles as I try to remember what exactly he'd said that made me doubt. He accused me of trying to manipulate him, which was quite offensive, and then he told me the least I could do was stay out of his emotions since he couldn't block me.

It's something about his not being able to block me. Something doesn't fit. Thinking about my most useful and annoying talent, I try to pick out what is bothering me. I've been dealing with trying to ignore the background hum of emotional turbulence that follows me almost wherever I go since I was a child. I used to think it was fun to know what people where feeling and tease or announce that knowledge, but I learned pretty quickly that doing so was a sure way to drive people away from me. Especially my mother. So I started creating barriers around my mind that blocked out other people's emotions. It has never worked completely, there's always some background noise, but it keeps everything at a manageable level that's easy to ignore.

Then it hits me.

There's no noise coming from Milo right now. No latent worry about being seen, no concern for Celia, no pleasure at sitting with me. There is nothing coming from him at all. Perhaps Milo has an unnatural ability to have absolutely zero emotions when he wants to, but I very much doubt that. I know him too well. There's no way he's still not brooding about Lance, and Celia is constantly on his mind. Gently, even though I know he'd hate it if he knew, I probe Milo with my Perception. Just a hesitant touch at first, and I get nothing, complete emptiness. I push harder. Closing down each of my other talents systematically so they can't interfere, I scour his aura for something, anything. And find nothing.

Milo is blocking me. Somehow my talentless boyfriend is blocking me.

I prop my elbows on the table and focus all my attention on him. My movement makes him look over at me. The anxiety in my posture draws a frown. "Milo, what are you thinking about right now?"

"Um, I'm wondering why you're looking at me like that."

"No," I say with a shake of my head, "what were you thinking about right before I asked you?"

His frown deepens. "I was rethinking the Nutcracker trip. There will a lot of people there that might see you and know who you are. I know the media has backed off you lately, but after that story, it might pick back up again. If someone calls the media, it could be bad. Maybe the Guardians won't see the news report, but I certainly don't want to risk giving them another chance."

"That's all?" I ask.

"Do you have a more pressing concern than the Guardians not kidnapping me?" He smiles vaguely and runs his fingers through his hair. "Besides all the usual threats, that is."

"You weren't thinking about me getting into your emotions? You weren't worried about that at all?" I demand.

He looks at me completely bewildered. "No...You said you wouldn't, and I trust you. Why, were you poking at me for some reason?"

"Yes," I say, drawing a confused and hurt expression from Milo, "but not for the reason you think."

"Then maybe you better tell me why you're doing something I just asked you not to before I go with what I'm already thinking."

"You're really not trying to keep me out right now?" I ask.

"No! I can't. Why do you keep asking me that? Are you trying to rub in the fact that I can't do anything you can? Not the nicest thing in the world to do, Libby," he says seriously.

None of this makes sense, but my excitement is growing by the second. "But you can, Milo! You can do what I can do, at least part of it. You're blocking me. And I think you've been doing it since we met."

I have never seen Milo look so serious. Even when we've been in danger there's always an undercurrent of disregard. "What?" he asks stiffly.

"I can't feel you at all! You're a complete blank to me right now."

"Isn't that something you're doing, not me?" he asks.

I shake my head and sit all the way up. "No, I was trying to get past whatever you're doing, and I can't. That has never happened to me before. I can always feel people around me in the background. The only people who have ever been able to block me are other Perceptives and Concealors, and only really powerful ones like my mom and dad, and if I try hard enough I can always get something. I can feel you when you're really angry or happy, but I never realized until just now that I almost never get anything from you unless your emotions are intense."

Milo's expression hasn't changed at all but my mind is spinning. More and more evidence comes flooding into my mind. One in particular that I think will help Milo believe what I'm saying.

"That's why I didn't know you were in the hall with me today," I say. "If I had been able to feel your emotions I would have known you'd walked up. As angry as you were, I'm surprised I didn't feel you even if you were trying to block me. I should have at least felt that, or sensed you near me. People I'm familiar with, the ones who I know the feel of their emotions or spirit really well, I can usually feel it when they're near me."

"I didn't want you to know I was there," Milo says. "I wanted to see what was going to happen between you and Lance."

"What do you mean you didn't want me to know you were there? Did you do something to try and hide yourself?"

Finally joining me for real in this conversation, Milo rubs the side of his face thoughtfully. "I don't know what you mean. I was just standing down the hall from you. I wasn't hiding. I just didn't want you to see me there."

I am literally bouncing on the seat with excitement. "You concealed yourself. You had to have. I would have known you were there otherwise."

"Maybe you were just really distracted by the guy pressing himself up against you," Milo says snidely. I scowl at him and keep going.

"You're using talents without knowing it, Milo. That Inquisitor, he did something wrong."

Milo shakes his head emphatically. "No, Libby, you weren't there. He tried and tried to find something in me. I'd been to Inquests for a couple of my cousins I was close to. He didn't do anything wrong. There was nothing for him to find. I don't have any talents."

"Yes, you do," I argue. My adamant tone makes the guy at the table across from us look at me warily. I ignore him, but I do try to lower my voice. "You have at least two, and maybe more. The way you punched Lance today, you never should have been able to do that. Lance is one of the strongest and fastest people I know. He started to punch you first, and he should have connected before you could even think about hitting him. And you hit him so hard! He flew into the wall. Without his own Strength, I don't think he would have gotten back up so easily. Add in Speed and Strength and that makes four."

I am starting to feel lightheaded but Milo looks angry. "Stop it, Libby. I don't like this. Don't tell me I have something I don't. I've learned to live with what I am. You have no idea how much it crushed me to find out I would never live the life I wanted. I won't go back to that place in my life."

"But you don't have to. I know I'm right about this, Milo," I argue. "Have you really never considered this? What about what you said to Lance in the hall about you hiding something?"

"I just said it to make him scared of me!" Milo says in exasperation. "I mean, I have secrets about my diktats, and he knows I'm hiding something, but I was only trying to piss him off and make him stay away from you. I didn't mean anything by it."

"There is more to you than forged diktats, Milo. You have talents. I'm right about this," I argue. There is so much telling me I'm right, but Milo still refuses to believe me.

"No. You're not." His jaw is set in frustration.

"Have you listened to anything I've said?" I demand.

"Every word of it," he snaps. "And you're wrong. Don't you think I have been training myself to look like I have talents? Whatever you think you're seeing in me, it's not there."

I growl out my frustration and glare at him. "Why are you being so difficult? You can train yourself all you want to try and trick people, but training would never let you move as fast as you did today. And without Strength, moving that fast would have turned your joints into jelly. And nobody can practice Concealment or Perception. You have talents, Milo."

"No. I. Don't."

"This is stu..."

The sound of my name being called out over the restaurant din cuts off the rest of my sentence. Milo's irritation morphs into fear. Nobody would have any reason to call out to me in here. Nobody even recognized me that I noticed. Milo starts to move but I grab his arm and pull him back.

"No, let me," I whisper. He shakes his head but I'm not giving in on this one. "Milo, it could be the media. They can't see you again."

"Or it could be someone coming after you."

I roll my eyes at him. "Yeah, the Seekers are really going to call my name out before they kill me. Stay put and don't let anyone see you."

Grabbing my crutches I scoot myself out of the booth without taking my eyes off Milo. He doesn't move. It speaks to just how scared he really is of being found. I have to push down my own fear for him and focus as I start to turn away from him and attempt to intercept anyone from seeing him. I try to tap my Vision, but it only sputters at me. It's not the most reliable talent. At the most I can get a glimpse maybe a minute or two into the future when I try to force it, but half the time I get nothing. It's still better than anyone else I've met, but that doesn't keep me from being irritated about my talent's limitations. I push my frustration away and complete my turn. My eyes close involuntarily. It's probably just the media. I knew they would find me again eventually. Forcing myself to quit being a wimp, I open my eyes expecting a crowd of eager faces.

Instead, all I see is one face, grinning stupidly instead of eagerly. "Hey, cool, it worked. I found you," Lance says.

"Lance, what are you doing here?" I hiss.

He leans against an empty booth casually. "Just checking in on you."

"She's fine," Milo says from behind me, "now leave."

"Ah, I thought that was Freak Boy's car in the parking lot."

"Don't call him that or I'll punch you myself," I say. "Several times."

Maybe all my pretending has worked a little too well, because Lance doesn't look scared in the least. Milo notices as well.

"Purple's a good color on you, Lance," Milo says, referring to the streaks of violet bruising under his eyes. "You should wear it more often, and you will if you don't leave right now."

Why does it irritate me that Lance flinches for Milo but not for me?

"Look, Mi-lo," Lance says, stretching out Milo's name condescendingly, "I don't expect you to understand, but I'm not going anywhere. Libby is mine to protect, mine in a way she'll never be yours."

Milo pushes past me and grabs Lance before he can react. "Oh, I understand better than you think. Libby told me all about your Guardian Oath."

Lance's face pales slightly.

"I'd kill you right now if Libby would let me. For some reason she thinks you might be useful, although I don't know why. A sniveling, pathetic idiot like you can't be worth too much, but Libby asked, and I know how to respect a lady's wishes. We'll use you to keep her safe, and if it costs you your life, so be it."

The vagueness of how exactly it might cost Lance his life, by another's hand or by Milo's, doesn't do anything to improve Lance's complexion.

"But let me make one thing clear, Lance," Milo says, grabbing Lance's shirt and yanking him closer, "if you ever try to steal my girlfriend from me again like you did with this Oath crap, I won't let it slide no matter what Libby says. Talents or no talents, I'll slit your throat with your own knife just like you tried to do to Libby."

Milo lets go of Lance's shirt and turns his back on him as if he isn't in the least bit concerned about a reprisal attack. And maybe he isn't. I let out a nervous breath. Milo's expression turns perfectly sweet, and just a little seductive, as his hand glides across my cheek. Bristling annoyance overcomes Lance's fear at the touch, but Milo isn't finished.

"Why don't you go ahead and give your watchdog his instructions. I'll wait for you at the table." Then to punctuate just how much Lance does not have me, Milo leans down and kisses me. Awkward is an understatement. I can feel Lance nearly boiling over with anger, but Milo knows precisely what he's doing. His lips draw out my inhibition in an instant and I find myself returning his modest kiss wholeheartedly. He pulls back with a wolfish grin. Without another word, he walks away, leaving me staring at an infuriated Lance.

"Watchdog?" he asks through clenched teeth.

"It was your choice, Lance, not mine."

His body releases some of its tension. Milo believes Lance made the Oath solely to try and steal me back, and that was probably part of it, but I know from what I felt in him earlier today that he honestly does want to protect me. It's pretty much the only reason I didn't let Milo take at least a few more swings at him. Despite his anger, Lance seems to understand that he got himself into this mess all on his own. He leans back against the booth's support.

"I could feel that," he says quietly. "When he kissed you, I could feel you respond to him."

The urge to throw up nearly gets in the way of me speaking. "I didn't think the Oath worked like that."

"It's not really meant to be used on one person," he says quietly. "When you swear to protect a whole group of people there's too many to form any deep connection. Personal feelings make it worse, too. I just didn't expect it to be so strong."

"You shouldn't have done it, Lance." At the very least he should have asked me first. I might have actually agreed to it if he had. This way I'm too angry at him for forcing me into this connection to be appreciative of his help.

He shakes his head. "No, I had to, Libby. I have to protect you."

I don't understand him even if I do believe him, but I'm not going to turn away help right now. "Then you'll just have to live with it, I guess."

"I know," Lance says. For a few seconds neither of us says anything. I want to go to Milo and pretend Lance doesn't exist, but the tortured expression on his face is hard to turn my back on. Finally Lance is the one to break the silence. "You love him, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Did you love me?" he asks. "Before?"

I exhale slowly. "Yes, I loved you as my best friend, and more than that, too."

The slow nod of his head is all the reaction I get. After a moment he pushes away from the booth and faces me. "What are my instructions?"

"You know who the Seekers are?" He nods like I thought he would. Being that his dad is pretty high up in the Guardian infrastructure, I figured he would have at least heard of them. The only Guardian secrets his dad keeps from him are the ones he's forced to keep because of Guardian promises he's sworn. "We think they'll be the ones to come after me, but we can't forget the Guardians either. President Howe ordered them to leave me alone, but Lazaro has already broken that order once."

Lance raises an eyebrow in question but I don't bother to stop and explain. "It's been quiet since Lazaro attacked me, so maybe Howe took care of him for me, but I would hate to count on that and find out I'm wrong. Besides, if it isn't Lazaro calling the shots anymore, one of his lackeys will be. Listen for any hint that either group is going to make a move. I'm not asking you to spy on your own brothers, but if you hear anything..."

He nods again.

"And..." I hesitate, as this isn't something I discussed with Milo. "I can't fight very well right now. Stay close in case something happens, but it'd be better for everyone if you stayed far enough away that Milo doesn't know you're there. Just do what you've been doing up to now."

"No problem," Lance says. "Anything else?"

I take few more steps away from Milo so I can be sure he won't hear me. Lance raises a curious eyebrow, but follows. "I won't explain this, so don't even ask, but if you hear any rumors about the Guardians coming after Milo, tell me right away. Day or night, I don't care. And if you ever want any hope of me forgiving you for what you've put me through, you'll make sure nothing happens to Milo, because if I even think for a minute that you let Milo get hurt because of your stupid jealousy, I will destroy you, Lance."

"I won't let anything happen to Milo," he agrees. The words seem bitter on his tongue, but again, I can feel his sincerity. It likely has more to do with the pain it would cause me to lose Milo, which he would feel intensely, than actually caring about him, but I'll take it.

"You better go, now," I say, "and please don't just show up like this again."

Lance flips his keys in his hand, his usual cocky attitude returning full swing. "I'll see you at school, then. Later, Libby."

Great, one more reason to hate school. It was hard enough to deal with Lance when he was making everyone hate me. Having to face him like this might be even worse. Thank goodness it's almost Christmas break. I hobble back to the table to find Milo pacing next to it. He stops when I sit down. His eyes are dark and focused in the dim light.

"I still don't know if I believe you about me having talents," he says, "but I'm willing to try and find out."

I've had about enough testosterone for one day. These two are going to give me a brain aneurism. "Your sudden change of heart wouldn't have to do anything with Lance, would it?"

Milo's grin is contemptuous. "Well, I can't let that prick have all the fun, now can I?"

Forget the Seekers and Guardians, Milo and Lance are going to be the death of me.

Chapter 28

Remedy

My frustration boils over and I lose my focus completely. The trance I have been holding for an hour slips away. I hear Milo sigh along with me. He claims he has no talent for Spiritualism at all, but somehow he's able to tell the moment I gain or lose my trance. That's five. It's the only good thing that has come out of these practice sessions during the past week. I still can't manage to reach my own spirit let alone the spirits in the spirit world who could tell me what on earth I'm supposed to be doing with my life right now.

The rest of my body wakes back up, and I lean against the bed in defeat. "I just can't do it, Milo. I don't know what's wrong with me. I thought confronting my mom would help, but it hasn't. Not as much as I hoped it would anyway. I need to take a break."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Milo says. "I'm going to get a soda. You want one?"

I nod. "Something with caffeine, please."

Celia rolls over onto her back, her head hanging off the edge of the bed so she can turn and look at me. "It's too bad we can't tell my mom about you, Libby. Mom's a great Spiritualist. I bet she could tell you what you're doing wrong."

"I would love to meet your mom, Celia, but we're lucky enough they never saw Milo on TV. Telling them about me would make them pick up and leave faster than anything."

Actually, I'd love to meet Milo's family for several reasons. The biggest one being that I don't like being anybody's secret. I've had enough secrets to last a lifetime. Milo hands me a can of soda and sits back down on the floor across from me.

"Celia's right about me needing a teacher, though. I'm not getting this. We've got to find somebody willing to help," I say.

"Maybe Mr. Walters will know of someone. People are getting used to you at school, but there's still no way either of the Spiritualism teachers are going to volunteer," Milo says. "I'll try calling Mr. Walters tomorrow, but for now we just have to keep trying."

I shake my head and groan. "No more. I'm done for tonight. I want to work on figuring you out now. I feel like we're getting close. We've already confirmed you have five talents. I just have to figure out how to unlock them now."

"Four," he says grumpily. "We know there are four."

Well, at least he's admitting the first four now. Why he's still arguing with me about Spiritualism despite it being blatantly obvious makes no sense, but I ignore him for now.

"There has to be a way to get them to come to the surface."

Celia rolls back over and cocks her head to the side. Her eyebrow rises and her hands lift in a perfect "duh" kind of expression. "Why don't you just try doing another Inquest? The first obviously didn't work right, so just do it again."

"Celia, you can't do more than one Inquest. It just doesn't work that way," Milo says.

"But the first one never even happened."

I'm about to jump into the argument when Milo frowns, and says, "No, Celia. We're not doing another Inquest. Drop it."

His blatant refusal brings out my combative side. "Milo, maybe it's worth a try. I mean, maybe the Inquisitor didn't do it right."

"He did everything he was supposed to. The only thing that didn't go right was me having no talents." His angry tone is a little shocking. "I never want to go through that again. You don't understand what it was like."

My left hand darts up, right in front of his face so my pure black diktats are glaring at him. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, really. You had a few years to prepare for what was going to happen at your Inquest. You knew what was coming. It sucked, but at least you knew what was going to happen." Milo takes my hand and lowers it to his leg, where he holds it tightly. "Everything I thought was important was ripped away from me that night. I was convinced I was going to become something great, only to find out I was nothing. I've learned to live with what I am. I don't want false hope for something I'm never, ever going to have."

My frustrated growl surprises both him and Celia. "It's not false hope, Milo! You have talents. They're there. Somewhere! We just have to find them. Let me do this, please."

In the face of my rant he says nothing. Celia, though, is incapable of losing either her voice or her opinion. "Milo, for crying out loud, just let her do it. If it doesn't work, nothing changes. Like you said, you've already made your peace with being talentless. But if it does work, kudos! You really don't have anything to lose. Let Libby try."

Long moments of silence stretch between us.

"Fine," he says quietly.

My whole being lights up with excitement. Celia bounces off the bed and lands next to her brother. "This is going to be awesome."

Milo glares at her.

"Okay," I say, "give me your hands."

Milo reaches out tentatively. "Are you sure you know how to do this?"

"Yes," I say drily. "I spent my entire childhood watching my dad practice with the most talented Inquisitor in the state. I memorized the ritual years ago. I can do this."

He nods, looking less than convinced. He's seen me do ridiculous things like sprint faster than a car, knock trees down with a single kick, and turn concrete into soup. He doubts I can do this? This is the talent I have spent more time on than any other. Maybe it has more to do with watching me fail day after day at the one talent I need the most. I have to shake off the frustration of the week and remind myself that Spiritualism has nothing to do with an Inquest.

"Okay," I say, "let's get started. We still have to get ready for the ballet tonight."

Milo groans more about that than going through with the Inquest. I tune him out and send all my focus into awakening my Perception to its fullest. Slowly, my consciousness spreads into the whole of my body. Every molecule of my structure hums with power. The effort to push that power into Milo is tremendous. I can feel his hands trembling as I force it away from me and into him. When the last of my awareness rests in him, I sigh in relief.

"Milo Hanover, the Inquest to discover your true identity and purpose has begun," I say with pleasure. Nothing horrible happens, proving Celia's theory about the first one not counting to be true. If it had counted Milo would probably be writhing on the ground in pain right now. Milo seems to relax as well—at least as much as anyone in the middle of their own Inquest can relax, anyway.

"Milo, it is now time to uncover your talents so you may use them to benefit those with whom you come in contact."

With my Perception firmly planted in Milo, I start examining him. My smile spreads immediately because I know exactly what to look for. Right away I recognize the straining elements of both Speed and Strength locked inside every muscle cell, begging to be released just as my dad described to me. More subtle is the outward pulse of Milo's consciousness, Perception attempting to assert itself and search those around him for information. In opposition, his Concealment is focused inward, constantly attempting to hide him from those he has been running from.

His spirit...My attention momentarily wavers as I realize I've found his spirit. I take a moment to memorize the feel of it, hoping it will help me later when I try to access my own spirit. The slightly rough edges of his spirit wind around a core as warm and comforting as one of my dad's hugs. The feeling draws me in, but I sigh as I remind myself that I'm here for another purpose. I file the sensation away for later and notice the bits of his spirit questing out in search of other realms. Spiritualism, just like I said.

Then I realize that a more significant portion of his self is flowing out and down into the floor, into the natural elements of this world. My amazement grows as I realize Milo also has a talent for Naturalism. Six, one more than I expected. In my eagerness to find even more, I leap up to his mind and search for the mental energy spiraling out in an attempt to make contact with segments of time kept hidden by the future. I'm disappointed when I don't find the telltale sign of Vision, but the six I already found are incredible!

Six. I can't contain it any longer. Gone is the composure I always saw in my dad and Inquisitor Moore as they worked. I search out the rest of the information I need to complete the Inquest and nearly explode in my rush to deliver it.

"Milo," I say, my voice sounding giddy and high. I can't even bear to waste time naming what each talent does. I simply spit them out one after another. "Your talents are Naturalism, Spiritualism, Concealment, Perception, Speed, and Strength. Your true name is from the Warrior line. You are Gideon, a member of the Guardian class!"

Milo cries out and his hands crush mine. I struggle to bear the pain as I quickly withdraw my Perception from his body. It sweeps back into me in a welcome rush. As the connection between us breaks, Milo releases me and my eyes snap open. He's doubled over with his hands hidden beneath his chest. I hate seeing him in pain, but my breath is quivering. The pain is good. It means it worked. Not shoving his chest up so I can get a look at his wrist is unbearable. Celia is ducking and twisting, trying to see her brother as well. I count the seconds.

An eternity later his chest starts to rise up slowly. As soon as I can see his right hand I grab it and stretch it out so both Celia and I can see. My body, mind, breath, everything freezes in confusion. All I see are the same jagged, botched scars of his first Inquest.

"What happened?" Celia demands.

I want to know the same thing. My eyes turn and meet Milo's. He looks up at me with a startled expression. "What happened?" I repeat.

"I don't know," he says. "It worked, but I think something went wrong." He's cradling his left arm against his body...as if it's in pain. My mind starts whirring. His shirt is covering his arm, but when I look up at Milo I can see my own thoughts confirmed in his expression. Slowly my fingers reach for his left arm. He doesn't resist as I gently pull it forward so we can all see the almost complete ring of diktats encircling his left wrist. For once, Celia is completely speechless. Left. I don't understand. Left is reserved for the Destroyer class, but I named Milo as a Guardian. I look at him in confusion.

"I don't understand," I say. "Why are your diktats on your left hand?"

"Because you're the one who unlocked them?" Celia ventures. I'm glad to see she's found her voice again, but that doesn't make sense.

"That shouldn't matter. Inquisitors never leave any kind of personal mark on their clients. They can't affect the person at all, just unlock their talents. I shouldn't have done anything to change Milo." None of this makes sense.

"But...but nobody else could unlock my talents," Milo says, "only you."

"We don't know that for sure. Only one other Inquisitor tried. He may have messed up."

Milo shakes his head. "He didn't mess up, Libby. He couldn't find my talents anywhere. He tried, and tried, and tried. Something about me made it so he couldn't access my talents like you could."

"Why me?" I ask, but even as the words are leaving my mouth a memory surfaces. There were a lot of things my dad told me about his training, but there were some things he couldn't. After he found out who I was he told me Inquisitor Moore had told him something that he wanted to tell me, but couldn't. The most he could share was that when my destiny was revealed there would be someone there to help me, someone only I could find. It sounded like some kind of riddle, or some game of pretend at the time. I didn't know what he was talking about so I tucked it away for later.

Apparently, later has just arrived.

I hold my own wrist up to Milo's. Left to match left. If Milo is right, I was the only person in this world who could have unlocked his talents. I found him, the real him that was hiding behind forgeries, and up until recently, ugly clothes.

"What...?" Milo starts to ask.

I shush him immediately. I have to be sure. I was unconscious, so I don't know how long it took with me, but I keep my eyes glued to Milo's diktats. A traumatic red after being raised, I watch as they slowly begin to darken. It's barely noticeable at first. As the seconds pass it starts to pick up speed. It looks like the red color is darkening, at first, but then it reaches it tipping point and his diktats turn a sudden and violent black.

Confirmation hits me hard. Milo isn't a Guardian for the people. He's _my_ Guardian, a Guardian to the Destroyer. He is the help my dad promised me I would find. When my face splits into a grin Milo and Celia look at me expectantly. I repeat everything I just figured out and Milo surprises me by laughing.

"What are you laughing about?"

He laughs again and grins. "I can't believe it. I have talents, and all along I was meant to find you. I was meant to help you. Libby," he says with fire in his eyes, "Now I can protect you for real. We don't need Lance, we don't need anybody else."

"Oh," I say, my excitement falling down a few notches. We don't need anybody else for what? Is he still thinking about going after the Guardians? I push that thought aside as I realize he's probably just talking about Lance and his Oath.

Celia grabs her brother's wrist away from me and inspects it thoroughly. "Guardian to the Destroyer. Well, that's a surprise."

"Definitely," I agree. I still can't stop staring at his wrist. This is incredible. Celia gets up and plops back on the bed, drawing my attention. "Thanks for the brilliant idea, Celia. I hadn't even thought to try a second Inquest. I can't believe it worked."

"I didn't know if it would work either, but that was awesome!" Celia gushes.

Milo's not listening to either of us. He sandwiches my face between his hands and kisses me fiercely. Celia giggles at the display. It's a far cry from the usual chaste pecks and handholding she gets to see. Milo pulls back but does not let go of my face. "Thank you. Thank you, Libby." He kisses me again. And again. His passion and enthusiasm drunken me in an instant.

Only a knock at the door curbs him.

"Oh, shoot, what time is it?" I ask. I scramble awkwardly to my feet, my casted foot trying to topple me more than once. The Inquest must have taken longer than I realized.

Celia and Milo both look at me questioningly. Oh, this is not going to be pleasant.

"It's seven o'clock," Celia offers, and is then completely distracted. "Libby, the ballet starts at eight-thirty! We need to get ready."

Milo however is still focused on the door. "Are you expecting someone?"

Very, very not pleasant. Especially after Milo's _we don't need anybody else_ comment.

I offer an apologetic shrug and stumble forward to reach my crutches. My crutches are pinned under my arms before he figures it out.

"You have got to be kidding me! Isn't it bad enough that I have to live with the knowledge that he's creeping around watching us constantly? He's not coming, Libby. He is _not_ coming!"

"Milo, you've been worried all week about us going where there will be so many people around who might recognize us. I'm not going to be much help with this cast. We need an extra hand tonight," I say.

Milo thrusts his wrist into the air, making sure I can see his diktats. "We don't need Lance. I'm perfectly capable..."

"Of protecting both me and Celia?" I ask. "Look at my leg. I can't help you tonight. I understand what you're saying, but with me in a cast we still need help right now."

"Not him."

"Then who?" I ask as I pull the door open to a grinning Lance. He's obviously heard Milo's rant and is thoroughly enjoying it. I roll my eyes at him, which only makes him smile again. "Come in, Lance."

"Thanks, it's freezing out here." He slips past me, but not without briefly touching my waist as if he fears he might bump into me. I slap his hand away, but Milo's possessive growl only serves to brighten Lance's smile. "Good evening, Milo. Nice to see you too. And you must be Celia," he says. She smiles back at him winningly, completely unaware of anything else. A big "I don't think so" flashes in my mind. Celia's boy-crazy train is going nowhere near Lance, for her own good. And I'm big enough to admit it, because thinking of Lance with someone else makes my own jealousy surge.

Milo appears to feel the same way about the prospect of Celia and Lance. He steps closer to his sister, and says, "Celia, go get dressed."

She nods without taking her eyes off Lance and saunters to the bathroom.

"Oh, good," Lance says, glancing at each of our clothes, "I was beginning to worry that I was seriously overdressed. We don't have that much time, though. Parking is going to be a nightmare if we don't get there early enough. Libby, you better go get dressed too."

I roll my eyes at his attempt to take control. Typical Lance, irritate everyone in the room and still expect them to take orders. Too bad it usually works for him. It most definitely will not work tonight. Especially not with Milo around. As Milo's incensed grimace turns up into a pleased smile I know this is going to be bad. Close to the bathroom, he only has to lean to the side in order to knock lightly on the hollow door.

"Make it quick, Celia, Libby still has to change." She calls out that she will in her happy sing-song voice and Milo turns back toward Lance. "The only reason you're coming is because Libby's right. I don't want her risking herself when she's already hurt. But me needing your help isn't going to last long."

I watch in horrified fascination as his fingers start undoing the buttons of his shirt. I should stop him, explain everything to Lance first, but I can't take my eyes off Milo's chest as it is slowly revealed. Defined muscle every bit as impressive as Lance's—which I have seen many times thanks to his incurable need to go shirtless during Speed and Strength training—locks me into inaction. Whatever Lance's reaction is, it's lost on me. Milo's right arm slides out of his shirt first. Then his left begins to slide out as well.

My heart stutters as fear of what Lance's reaction might be grabs a hold of me. What if Lance sees this as some kind of confirmation about Milo being a danger to me? He won't have any clue what's going on before he sees his diktats.

"Milo..." I begin, but then his arm is out, revealing his newly raised diktats where Lance can certainly see them. The midnight black standing out against his light colored skin makes them pretty hard to miss. Silence deadens the air for a brief second.

"What the hell?" Lance asks in confusion.

"Like I said," Milo drawls, "I won't be needing your help much longer. Once Libby's leg is better we won't need you anymore." He walks over to the muddled Lance. My warning glance does nothing to hinder him. "But since you're here, there is one thing I need from you."

Milo grabs Lance's left arm and snatches out his Guardian blade before he can respond.

To Lance's credit, he doesn't even flinch. His eyes are level with Milo's and as hard as steel. Milo surprises him by turning away and walking toward me. Now Lance grows concerned. Moron. He is obviously still stuck on the idea that Milo is dangerous. The predatory glint in his eye shows that he has no inclination of what Milo is about to do. I knew as soon as he asked for the knife. Elation fills my mind.

Sure enough, Milo drops his first two fingers to the emblem on the hilt of Lance's Guardian blade. Lance's eyes narrow while my lips curl into a scowling smile. Milo's fingers move to his forehead then to his heart. I know to expect the scarlet flare of Milo's diktats, but it startles me regardless. Milo's presence seems to press over me. I am free to relish it while Lance turns an angry shade of red.

"You...you're a Guardian?" he asks. "How is that even possible?"

"My first Inquest didn't get things quite right," Milo says. "Libby was kind enough to remedy that. I'm a Guardian every bit as much as you are, Lance. Just not for the same team." He holds up his left wrist again. The diktats fading back to black makes Lance flinch.

I know he has no idea what's going on, but Lance has the deplorable ability to ignore things like not understanding, and take action anyway. "I don't know what the hell this is," he says gesturing at Milo's wrist, "but we're on the same team whether you like it or not, Milo. I'm bound to Libby just like you are. Now go put a shirt on."

Chapter 29

Cipher

Lance sitting next to Celia is out of the question. Lance sitting by me is absurd. Milo and Lance sitting next to each other is a recipe for disaster. But since I refuse to make Lance sit away from us, just in case we need him, Milo takes the least offensive of the three options and sits between me and Lance with Celia all the way on my right, as far away from Lance as possible. Celia frowns at the seating arrangement and peeks glances at Lance every few seconds. Milo wasn't kidding about how boy-crazy she is.

Even so, between her and her brother, Celia is by far the better behaved. Outwardly both Lance and Milo are the picture of perfect manners. Inwardly, there is a battle between the two of them that I am the only one aware of. Milo is radiating frustration at being near Lance and having to depend on him for any kind of help. Lance bounces between feeling superior at being needed despite Milo's blatant unhappiness about it and a mixture of jealousy and depression every time Milo touches me.

My blocks are up against them both, but they aren't working as well as I would hope. I'm too close, physically and emotionally, to both of them. I love the ballet because it's beautiful and peaceful and captivating. I seriously doubt I'm going to get much peace tonight. It's going to be a long night.

I've never been so happy to be left in darkness as when the lights finally go out. Maybe if I go to sleep no one will notice, and then I won't have to be inundated with their emotional overload. I almost give in. The audience falls silent in preparation. I honestly expect both Milo's and Lance's eyes to close as soon as the curtain rises given how little either of them enjoy the ballet, but they both shock me by focusing their attention on the patrons surrounding us in the dim room.

The ballet opens with a flare of music and light and closes the same way.

My head comes up off Milo's shoulder two hours after the first curtain rose, and I applaud along with Celia. Milo takes my hand when I stop clapping and leans over to me. His lips touch mine briefly, and he asks, "Did you enjoy the ballet?"

"I did. Thank you for bringing me."

"Thank Celia. I never would have thought to come on my own," he admits. "It was kind of cool, though."

I had actually been afraid I would miss seeing "The Nutcracker" for the first time in my life. I'd thought about suggesting it myself, but with everything else going on it seemed silly to ask for something so trivial. I turn toward Celia to thank her, but she breaks in before I can.

"Ooh, Milo!" Celia gushes. "Look, look! Isabelle Sanders is back on stage. I think she's signing autographs!"

"Who?" Milo asks.

Celia rolls her eyes at him. "The Prima Ballerina! I've got to meet her. Please take me down to the stage. Please?"

"Celia..." Milo glances around at the hundreds of people milling about.

"Please, please, please?"

She is impossible for Milo to resist. His deep sigh admits his defeat. "Do you want to come down with us?" he asks me.

The long ramp leading down to the stage makes me shake my head. My foot throbs even thinking of trying to wade through the crowded slope without tripping. "Go ahead without me. I'll wait here."

Celia bounces up and grabs Milo's hand away from me. He doesn't stand right away, clearly not keen on the idea of leaving me alone. But of course, I'm not alone. Lance nudges Milo. Amazingly, his face shows no sign of anything but seriousness. "Go ahead, I'll keep watch," he says.

The businesslike expression on Lance's face is likely the only reason Milo stands up. "We'll be right back," he promises me. And to Lance, he says, "Keep an eye out for anyone even remotely suspicious."

Lance nods and crosses his arms over his chest. Milo watches him for as long as possible until the crowd swallows them. Only then does he relax. His elbows come back up on the armrests and one hand lazily gestures toward me. "You look really nice tonight, by the way. If I remember right, when we came last year you wore black slacks and that green sweater. You looked nice then, too, but your dress tonight is even better."

An intense desire to smooth my dress and make sure the knee length skirt hasn't ridden up anywhere makes my fingers itch. I can see that the dress is fine already and refuse to let Lance know his attention affects me. Maybe it shouldn't, but what he thinks still matters to me. His reminder that he was my date to this very event reminds me of how difficult it must have been for him to sit through the performance. Guilt I can't fully explain urges me to speak.

"I'm sorry I had to ask you to come to this, Lance."

"It's okay," he says. "I meant what I said about protecting you. It's hard to see you with Milo, but if you need me I won't let you down again."

The lack of jealousy pouring off of him when he says Milo's name, combined with the sincerity of his promise settles over me like a blanket. "Lance, do you really understand what that means for you? Your dad..."

"My dad will never approve of my choice," he says. "I told him as soon as I got home after giving you my Oath. He hasn't spoken to me since, and at this point I don't know if he ever will, but that hasn't changed my mind."

"It's a lot to give up. I believe everything you told me," I admit. "I believe that you didn't mean to hurt me that night, and that you tried to protect me in the only way you thought you could, but..."

His face falls. Lance isn't a Perceptive, but he doesn't need talents to know what I'm thinking about right now. He knows me so well he sees it in the way I face him and hears the hurt in my voice. "But all the other stuff," he says, "the things I said about you, the way I turned everyone against you...believe me, I know what you must think of me for that. I hate myself for what I did to you. I know I don't deserve it, but I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me, Libby."

"I want to," I tell him honestly, "but it may take me some time."

It breaks my heart that I can't say the words he wants to hear right now, because for sixteen years Lance was my best friend, but the pain he caused me is still too close. Lance nods, a sliver of hope filling him at my words.

"Libby," Lance begins. He hesitates, and I worry I won't like what he's about to say. "I want you back. I miss you like crazy..."

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything Lance cuts me off.

"But I understand that it's not my choice. I left you. It was a mistake, but it's one I have to live with. You're with Milo now. I promise I won't try to force you into taking me back again." Lance smiles. "If you willing change your mind, well, I hope you know I won't hesitate."

His sudden grin makes me smile. Forgiving Lance, given enough time I think it's a possibility. Me leaving Milo for him? That may be asking too much. I can still appreciate his honesty and his promise to back off. When Lance's smile darkens and disappears, mine does too, though I'm not sure why until Lance speaks again.

"I won't interfere with your relationship with Milo. He obviously loves you, and you love him. That doesn't mean I've changed my mind about him."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I told you I thought he was dangerous, and I still think that's true. That's why despite what Milo says about him not needing me to protect you, I'm not going anywhere. I don't trust him."

Just when I thought having Lance around wasn't going to be so bad. "Why? What has Milo ever done that makes you think he's going to hurt me?"

Lance shakes his head. "It's not anything he's done, although I do want an explanation about whatever you did with his diktats tonight. It's just something about him. He puts on this big act like nothing matters and he couldn't care less about what anyone else thinks, but there's something hiding behind that."

Turning to face me directly, Lance holds my gaze with his seriousness. "I've grown up around Guardians. I can recognize dangerous when I see it, and something about Milo makes me want to stick as close to you as I can."

"Milo isn't going to hurt me," I say.

Lance shrugs. "Maybe you're right, but just in case you aren't, I'll be here."

Just like when Lance first brought up his concerns about Milo, my immediate reaction is too dismiss them completely. I trust Milo. I don't believe for a second that he would ever purposely hurt me. I want to chock Lance's fears up to jealousy or some other mundane reason, but Lance has good instincts. A more sensible part of me tucks his comments away for later and changes the subject.

"I am sorry I missed your birthday." He turned seventeen last week. I thought about him that day, sad and frustrated that I couldn't wish him happy birthday for the first time ever.

Lance seems to understand the mixture of emotions. "Hey, not your fault. We'll do something fun next year."

"Maybe that..." I begin, but I never finish the thought. My vision ripples as a paralyzing effect sweeps through my entire body. The people moving lazily out of the theater suddenly spring forward as time moves them at an unnatural pace. My focus narrows in on Milo and Celia speaking with the dancer. Even in a vision I can sense them before they arrive. Guardians, not here for me this time, attack Milo in a coordinated effort. The glimpse dissipates and the slow moving patrons return.

I have two, maybe three minutes. Lance is asking me something, but I can't focus on him right now. A full, twelve-member Guardian strike team is on their way to the stage. Not even Lance and Milo, with his fledgling Guardian abilities, will be able to handle that. I have to help. My consciousness centers on my leg, accessing my Naturalism to see what one week has done for my ankle. Hopefully having my talents unlocked will mean an even speedier recovery than usual. The crack is still there, but less defined than before. It will have to do.

Shoving my fingers down the sides of the cast, I pull against it with everything I have. Faced with my Strength, the plaster and gauze disintegrate. I look up to find myself faced with a stunned Lance. "Guardians!" I exclaim before dashing down the aisle.

I don't know if Lance is following. I can't see anything in front of me. All I can do is push people out of my way as I flash through the throng to the stage. Tapping into my Concealment, I send feelers out in all directions, searching, desperate to know how far away they are. Two dozen yards to my left, I find the first one. My Speed leaps to its fullest. Grating pain throbs in my ankle. Dr. Layton is going to kill me for this. Two more steps and I reach the edge of the crowd. The sudden emptiness feels odd, but I can finally see Milo. He's waiting patiently while Celia gushes over the dancer.

"Milo," I scream, "Guardians!"

Milo crouches, and Celia does exactly what we've trained her to do. She runs. But not without grabbing Isabelle Sanders and yanking her back behind the curtain to safety. I reach the stairs leading up to the stage just as the team of Guardians converges on Milo at a speed I can't match with my injury.

Fast before his second Inquest, Milo is even faster now, but the Speed and Strength he's attempting to use are way beyond what he is used to. Instead of the fluid grace with which Lance executes every move, Milo lurches and stumbles through his attacks. A dozen hits have already gotten through his defenses when I reach the stage floor. Luckily none of them have been fatal. They seem to want him alive. Their focus is entirely spent on Milo, so none of them even react to my advance. I take out the two closest to me with lightning-fast flicks of my hands to the base of their necks. They drop like spaghetti, drawing the attention of everyone else.

The split-second surprise they suffer gives me all the opening I need. I drop to a crouch and sweep my leg out to the left. The nearest Guardian falls hard and tries to bounce back up, but my elbow to his throat ends that attempt. Vision actually warns me of the next attack. I leap into the air and watch as another Guardian's low tackle misses completely. My heel comes down hard on his neck. The snapping of his Strength-enhanced vertebrae makes me cringe, but I don't stop moving.

Milo is back in action, and Lance leaps onto the stage and engages two at once. There go his chances of ever joining them. The gusto with which he snaps one Guardian's neck and slices into the knee cap of another one with his Guardian blade makes me think he doesn't care about that right now. Focusing on the random glimpses I'm getting, I leave the two of them to their work and take down Guardian after Guardian.

It can't be more than a few seconds before all but one is either dead or unconscious on the ground. Milo is panting on the floor next to his last opponent, and Lance is kicking away the Guardian that fell on him in his death throes. Apparently they're both fine, leaving the last one to me. Thanks. My ankle is killing me.

Tall, broad shouldered, and surprisingly young, the last Guardian faces me balanced between admiration and wariness. The insignia on his jacket marks him as the leader. Vision reveals no intention of him attacking, so I hold my stance as well. "Call off this attack and I'll let whoever is still alive stay that way," I say.

"I can't do that, Cassia." His firm voice only betrays his nerves when he gets to my true name. I don't like hearing it any more than he does. I doubt anyone does.

My gaze slips over his shoulder to the frozen mass of ballet patrons. Every eye in the theater is focused on me. The cameras in place to record the opening performance are trained on me as well. Their red indicator lights glare at me from the darkness like a pack of evil fairytale monsters. There is no going back, now. No pretending I'm not Cassia. If I had to guess, I would say this whole thing is playing live around the world. The chances of me seeing my eighteenth birthday just decreased dramatically. I sigh and focus my attention back on the remaining Guardian.

"Just give us the Cipher..."

How odd that he knows the nickname Mr. Walters gave Milo.

"...and we'll leave you and the others in peace. I promise that I will not attack you or your friends, even that one, though I'd truly like to strip him of his weapon right now for his traitorous involvement in this," he says gesturing at Lance.

Lance kicks the Guardian next to him and snorts at the promise. Unless this guy is Super Guardian, the threat of him attacking us at this point seems pretty minimal. He is still alive, though, so you never really know. I know better than anyone that people are rarely what they seem.

"You give me your word, Guardian..." I pause, waiting for him to fill in the blank. If I get a promise from a Guardian I definitely want a name to go along with it.

"Braden," he supplies, his head tilting to one side at my request. He almost seems curious, or maybe he's just trying to memorize my features for when he comes back to kill me, but he stares at me very intently with an odd expression on his face. It's like he's trying to figure something out, but I can't imagine what would be more important right now than wrapping up this mess.

"You give me your word, Guardian Braden, that if I give you Milo you'll leave without hurting my friends?" I ask.

His first two fingers touch the emblem on his dagger, and he says, "I do."

The gesture binds him to make an honest answer, which I appreciate, but hardly need given the truthful aura surrounding him. Still, it's good to know that the guy hunting me and my friends is at least honest.

"The first problem with that is," I say, "that Milo is my friend, too."

Braden's expression shifts to amusement as he brushes a dark lock of hair out of his face. His eyes don't leave mine. "Yes, I figured that when you leapt up here to defend him. What's the second problem?"

He's being so...decent about this. Most Guardians I ever tried to argue with just backhanded me, or something equally unappreciated. He actually seems to want to know what I have to say. Is it weird that I find myself actually liking this guy? There's got to be something seriously wrong with me. "The second problem is...Milo isn't what you think he is. He has talents. You can check for yourself."

"I don't need to see the forgeries he's been wearing since his Inquest. The Inquisitor who tried to hide him already confessed to his crimes," Braden says.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

I motion for Milo to stand up and join me. This will bring him within reach of Braden, but he trusts my judgment and moves to stand up. Well, he attempts to stand up, anyway. A trail of blood running down the side of his face that I couldn't see before makes him wobble. The way he winces when he puts weight on his right leg doesn't look very good either. My heart convulses with worry. I can't show Braden any more weakness than I already have, though. My eyes beg Lance for help. He responds with pleasure at having to help a woozy Milo stand up.

Braden's brow arches in surprise as the two draw near us. I keep a careful eye on my Vision for any warning that his interest will turn dangerous, but I get no such glimpses. He waits patiently for me to take Milo's left arm and hold it out for him to inspect. His cuff is covering his diktats. I move to push his sleeve back, but Braden folds his arm across his chest, a none too subtle sign that he is no longer amused.

"Wrong hand," he says.

"No," I say, "it's not." My fingers slide up the cuff of his shirt. The black band of diktats that go almost completely around his wrist look like onyx under the stage lights. Milo's eyes are growing glassy, but Braden's double in size.

"I...I don't understand. How did this happen?"

My lips part to explain, but instinct warns me to be careful. He may be willing to let me talk rather than just killing us all, but he's still a Guardian. Not to mention the video cameras trained on me right now. "The first Inquisitor, he did something wrong. I redid the Inquest and Milo's diktats appeared."

The frown Braden is wearing crinkles his eyes. I can't tell whether or not he believes me because I'm too focused on Milo's pain to tune into his emotions at the moment. Milo is trying to hold off his agony, but he's losing ground. Braden seems doubtful of my explanation, but Milo's problem was unique. Who is Braden to know for sure what could remedy the situation? "Why are the diktats on his left arm?" Braden asks finally. "And why are they black?"

I shrug in false ignorance. "Maybe because I'm the one who unlocked them," I say, lifting my own hand in comparison. "I don't know, but he's not talentless. You can't have him."

My body tenses as Braden reaches out for Milo's hand. I scour the future and get assurance from my Vision that Braden won't hurt Milo, but I don't back down. Milo is barely aware of the fact that his new diktats are being poked and examined by the man who just led a strike team against him. The bump on the side of Milo's head makes me anxious to wrap this up and get him some help.

"They're real," I snap, worry edging into my voice. "You can't deny they're real. Let us leave."

Braden's blade flips out of its sheath with a harsh whisper. My own hand intercepts his before he can do anything with it. The threat in my eyes and stance is met by a peaceful, but insistent, posture from Braden. "I need to be sure," he says softly.

Every talent I have works furiously to reassure me. My Vision finally splutters and gives up, but I can sense the calm energy of his body and his honest need to examine Milo. There's no readiness to fight, or malice in him. More than anything there is curiosity, about Milo, but even more about me. Even feeling secure in Braden's intentions, it's almost impossible to make my fingers uncurl from his wrist. The dark red marks that I leave behind when I finally do let go gives me a faint pang of guilt. I hadn't meant to grab him that hard.

It's an insect bite compared to my fear for Milo, though. My stomach takes a nose dive when Braden presses the blade against Milo's wrist. The slow draw of the knife across his skin mimics the sound of steel on steel. No blood colors his transformed skin, but I cringe until the tip pings and slips away. Braden puts his blade away and drops his hands to his side.

"He looks like he needs medical attention," Braden says. "I would suggest getting him to a doctor as soon as possible. Head wounds can be dangerous."

"Wait," Lance interrupts, "you're just going to let us go? Is there another strike team waiting outside to ambush us?"

"No, of course not." Braden seems offended by the insinuation. His stringent honor is a far cry from what I usually see in Guardians.

"Why?" Lance demands.

Braden rolls his shoulders in a careful shrug, his eyes trained on me. "I was sent here to collect a Cipher..."

Again with that nickname.

"...but your friend is not one. I have no other reason to arrest him."

Lance looks less than convinced, but I'm not going to let him stand around and argue the point. The next strike leader might not be so understanding. "Lance, take Milo out to the car. You're going to have to drive."

I turned to the curtain behind me. "Celia?" I call. She creeps out from behind the heavy curtain still holding Isabelle Sanders' hand. "Celia, go with Lance and Milo. Miss Sanders, everything is fine now. You should probably go to your dressing room."

The dancer scampers away daintily, but Celia hesitates. "You're coming, right?"

I look to Braden for an answer to that question. "Are you going to take me in?"

What I just did probably constitutes a breach in my agreement with Howe. Braden surprises me by shaking his head. "I only came here for your friend. If you're going to be arrested, it will be by someone else. My job here tonight is finished."

Not a hard and fast guarantee I didn't just sign my own death warrant, but it's better than nothing.

"I'll be right behind you, Celia. Now go help Milo." The insistence in my voice pushes her to act. I want Milo out of this theater as quickly as possible. The crowd below us opens in front of them. Their cowering assures me that they'll be safe all the way to the car. I want to race after them, but I have one more thing to take care of.

"Braden," I say, "thank you."

He regards me curiously. "Apparently you're the one to thank. I would be very interested to know the specifics of how you accomplished unlocking your friend's talents. The Inquisitor who performed his Inquest was very talented."

"Maybe another time," I say anxiously.

"I may just hold you to that," Braden says. I have a bad feeling that he means that. If he does, I'll deal with him later.

"Look, Braden, you're going to tell your bosses, or whoever told you to come after Milo that he's not what they thought. He's a regular person just like you and me."

Braden's eyebrow rises at the comparison. Oh, yeah. I am the farthest thing from normal imaginable, and for some reason I doubt Braden fits into that category either. He looks to be in his early twenties, but that is way too young to be leading a professional strike force. Maybe I was wrong about him being Super Guardian.

"You know what I mean. Anyway, you're going to tell them, right? Nobody else will come after Milo?" I'm begging, but Milo is worth it.

"I'll tell the Captain what I've seen. It should be enough to keep anyone from coming after your friend again, but I can't promise you it won't happen. And I can't make any promises about what Howe will do about you, either, Cassia."

"My name is Libby," I snap.

He nods his apology. "Libby. I'll do my best to convince the Captain of what I've seen, but it will be his call. Watch over your friend for the time being. Watch out for yourself, too."

It's the best I could have hoped for, but I still feel a pang of disappointment. "I will, and thanks for giving me the chance to explain."

My concern for Milo has reached its limit. I've gotten some hope of Milo's long term safety, even if mine is more uncertain than ever, but his short term health is even more pressing. I turn to follow after them. The loss of adrenaline and focused Strength buckles my ankle. I'd completely forgotten about it. I reach out to catch myself, but Braden moves faster. His hand clamps down on my arm and pulls me back to my feet. A strange tingling races up my arm at his touch. I find my balance quickly, but he doesn't let go.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"What do you care?" I ask, though my tone is more curious than vicious. He's different than most of the Guardians I've met. "You're going to try to kill me at some point anyway, right?"

He shrugs. "At some point...maybe. But for now, do you need help getting to your car?"

"Right, you carrying me to my car? That'll make a great headline for the ten o'clock news. No thanks. My ankle's broken, but it's not bad enough that I can't walk on it. I'll be fine."

Braden releases my arm and takes a small step back. One of his brothers moans. My cue to get going. Carefully, I limp toward the stairs.

"Maybe I'll see you again, Libby," Braden says.

I look back, and say, "No offense, Braden, but I really hope not."

Chapter 30

Purpose

The door pulls open and light spills across the porch. A middle-aged woman still dressed in an elegant black evening gown from the hospital's staff Christmas party stands in the entryway. Her confused frown looks out of place on her soft features. I slink back from the light, telling myself again what a terrible idea this is. We should have just taken Milo to the hospital.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hanover," Lance says, "I believe this young man belongs to you."

Her eyes finally take in more than the stranger addressing her. The sight of her bloody son hanging limply on Lance's arm shocks her into reacting. "Milo! What happened?"

"He and a Guardian strike team had a minor disagreement," Lance replies.

"Guardians!" Mrs. Hanover gasps. "Matthew! Matthew, get down here right now! The Guardians found Milo!"

The terror in her voice is answered immediately by the pounding of footsteps. A man with lightly graying brown hair barrels down the staircase and takes in the scene with the practiced calm of an experienced ER doctor. Which is probably because that's exactly what he is. "Get him into the living room and lay him on the couch. Annabelle, get my bag from my office, please. Celia? Celia, honey, are you alright?"

Stuck behind Lance and Milo, Celia calls out to her worried father. "I'm fine, Dad, just take care of Milo."

Lance lugs Milo through the doorway, allowing Celia to dart inside the house and race into the living room ahead of them. Mrs. Hanover rushes back in and crosses the entryway without looking at me once, her voice filling the room as she starts yelling at Milo.

"What on earth were you doing that got the Guardians' attention? How many times have we told you that you have to be careful? Look at you, Milo! You could have been killed!"

"I was being careful," Milo growls. "I'm always the one being careful! You and Dad were the ones trying to get me killed from the beginning!"

The argument fades in volume, if not in anger, as they drag Milo into the den. His dad joins in as soon as he gets back in sight of his son, bag of supplies in hand. It's a free-for-all of blame and accusations. I'm left here without anyone missing me. I can leave, sneak outside and wait. Milo's dad will help him, and he and his wife will never be the wiser about me. I am trembling with concern for Milo. He perked back up on the drive over, and his ability to fight with his parents now shows he's in control of his faculties. I can't say the same thing about his temper. It's a promising sign, but I'm afraid of his condition turning back around. I have to know he's okay. Plus, Celia is the worst secret-keeper in the world. She'll spill the whole story the moment Milo is okay.

I close the door quietly and take a hesitant step forward. My one freezing bare foot shuffles along beside my high heel, my gait lopsided and painful. I reach the doorway to the living room and peek in. Mr. Hanover's hands work ceaselessly as he berates Milo for being so foolish. He checks his son's pulse, blood pressure, and pupil dilation, dispensing medication, and finally cleans and bandages the head wound. He leans back at last and frowns at Milo. Milo looks up with an equally foul expression, but there is thanks in his eyes as well. His eyes look much clearer than they did a few minutes ago. I was so intent on Milo that I didn't even hear Celia babbling in the background at first because of the arguing. She's saying something about the theater, but I don't think anyone is listening to her.

"Libby," Milo says suddenly, his voice sounding loud in the absence of any fighting, "where's Libby?"

Celia pauses in her monologue and looks around. "She was here a minute ago."

Lance sees me first but says nothing. There is understanding in his eyes. This may cost me everything I have. The Guardians attacking Milo might make his parents pack them up anyway, but meeting me, knowing I'm the reason Milo was found in the first place, that will definitely take Milo away from me forever. I take a step back, but not quickly enough. Milo's eyes find me before I can hide.

"Libby," Milo says, "are you okay?"

His parents follow his gaze to me. So much for running.

"Libby?" Mrs. Hanover asks quietly. "Libitina Sparks?"

My heart was racing before. Now it is about to burst. I trip over my own feet as I step into the room.

"Matthew, it's her. It's Cassia."

Mr. Hanover blinks, but says nothing. Milo and I both tense, ready for another fight to break out.

"Milo," his mother says, "why didn't you tell us this is who you've been dating?"

"Uh, because I knew you'd pick a fight about it and make us move," he says.

Tears I don't understand fill her eyes. She stands up and I brace myself for her reaction. Anger, fear, hysterical screaming, I would have been prepared for any of those. Her running to me and throwing her arms around me are worse than a physical assault. I stagger in shock.

"Thank you, thank you, Libby. Oh, thank you," she cries. She pulls back and beams at me. I'm so stunned I can barely speak. When I find my voice it's halting and weak.

"I...I don't understand. You're...glad I'm here?" I ask.

Mr. Hanover has moved up behind his wife and is smiling just as widely as she is. I glance past them to Milo and Celia, but they're as dumbfounded as I am. I step back from Milo's parents. Panic that they know something I don't makes me look back at the front door. The awkward step I take into the hallway twists my ankle again. Only the wall next to me saves me from dropping completely. Mr. Hanover moves quickly and helps me to stand.

"What's wrong, dear?"

"I broke my ankle last weekend," I say though another spasm of pain. "I had to tear the cast off to get to Milo in time. I'm okay, though. Please don't worry about it. I'm fine."

"And you're walking on it?" He shakes his head in disbelief. "Let's get you to the couch." His wife bustles over to me, and they practically shove me forward. Short of attacking both of them, I don't know what to do but follow. Lance moves to the second couch ahead of us and takes up a defensive position at the end. I thank him silently, and let Milo's parents push me down to the cushions. Mr. Hanover is wrapping my ankle with an elastic bandage before I can object.

"We'll have to cast it again most likely, but for now it can wait. I think we might owe you an explanation first, and our thanks for saving Milo's life," he says.

"Lance and Milo helped too," I say quietly. I'm the reason Milo was found in the first place.

Mrs. Hanover sits down beside me, bouncing slightly in her enthusiasm. Her sudden shift in moods is disorienting. After hearing so many negative things about Milo's parents, I had wondered where his sister got her bubbliness. Celia must take after her mom, when she's not yelling at people. Mrs. Hanover looks at me, full smile.

"We didn't know why Milo was so insistent on moving here after his Inquest. He had never even been to New Mexico before. He pushed and pushed until we agreed. I never understood until we saw you on the news. Cassia, right here in Albuquerque. I knew then that it was fate. You would find him somehow."

Fate, or something worse? I'm beginning to think it was no accident that he ended up here with me. But...

"Why would you want me to find him? He already had the Guardians after him," I say. I would only be one more danger to Milo.

"Guardians," she snaps, "they've been hunting Milo because he has no talents. It's shameful the way they can't just leave him alone."

"But it's not true. Milo does have talents," I blurt out. "Milo, show them."

Sitting up slowly, Milo bares his wrist for his parents to see. They are both stunned. "I told you she could do it, Matthew. I knew she would be the one. Everything is going to be okay now."

I'm hopeful that the Guardians will leave Milo alone after Braden explains what happened, but that eerie instinct that told me not to explain too much has been grating on me since we left the theater. I fear Milo is nowhere near safe yet. I _'_ m hopeful, but Milo's parents have no idea about any of that yet. Why is Milo's mom smiling like that?

"Mrs. Hanover, what are you talking about?" I ask.

"You've saved Milo," she says. "You're going to save the other Ciphers now, aren't you?"

The room falls completely silent.

That's what Braden was talking about. He hadn't discovered Milo's nickname. It wasn't a nickname at all. Mr. Walters used to be a Seeker, a Guardian. He knew what Milo was when he first met him. He simply called him what he was. What he thought he was. My thoughts race through all of this in seconds, but Milo seems to be stuck on a single thought.

"There are others?" he asks darkly. The beginnings of another fight roll along with his words. "I'm not the only one?"

His mother's enthusiasm drops visibly. Her head dips down in shame and his father has to answer for her. He does so straight-backed, bracing for another round. "Yes, Milo, there are others."

"How many?" His furious eyes are darting between his parents in search of answers. "Two? Ten? A dozen? How many, Dad?"

"Hundreds, maybe thousands."

The news is unbelievable. Hundreds of people just like Milo. Do they all have hidden talents only I can reveal? I am reeling with the possibilities, the responsibility, and the pressure. Milo is having a completely different reaction.

"You let me believe I was the only one," he growls. "You let me believe I was a freak. You nearly killed me that night!"

"We had to, son. The Guardians would have taken you if we hadn't," Mr. Hanover says. "If we hadn't convinced the Inquisitor to let us forge your diktats you would have been taken away from us. We were terrified, Milo. What other option did we have?"

"You could have told me!" he yells. "Why didn't you explain what was going on to me? Instead you left me and Celia out of every decision. Did you think I was too stupid or irresponsible to have a say in what happened to me? It was my life! You only started listening to me after Celia was attacked. If you had told me from the beginning the reason I was in danger, we could have made a plan together that didn't involve me nearly bleeding to death or both of your children almost dying at the hands of Guardians!"

"Milo, please," his mother begs.

He shakes his head angrily. "Do you know what I would have told you that night?"

"No," she whispers.

Milo looks away from her. His body sinks into the couch. "And you never will. You'll never know how things might have been different. You should have told me. I should have had a choice. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were always so popular, so outgoing," his mom says quietly. "You loved being the center of attention. We were afraid you would tell someone, slip up about what you were. Milo, we were terrified of losing you. We thought we were making the right choice."

The scowl on Milo's face makes it pretty clear what he thinks of their decision making abilities. He glares at her, frozen in his fury for several long seconds. "Why," he asks through his clenched jaw, "didn't you tell me when Libby was named the Destroyer? It would have been a perfect time to let me in on your secret!"

"Milo, do not raise your voice at your mother," his dad demands. When Milo doesn't say anything, he continues. "We were trying to come up with a plan that wouldn't draw the Guardians' attention to you. We were working with the other Cipher families to come up with something that would keep you safe, keep all the Ciphers safe. It isn't an easy thing to coordinate something like that. We weren't ready for you to jump on your own."

"Looks like you underestimated me in more ways than one," Milo says bitterly. "I've done more on my own, without you. Maybe it should stay that way."

"Milo, please, we're trying to help you," his mom begs.

Milo opens his mouth to say something I'm sure won't help the situation. I motion to Celia for help. Moving from her spot on the floor in front of the fireplace, she comes and sits next to her brother. His arm slips around her shoulders and pulls her close. His anger is for the danger they put Celia in as much as their lying to him. Having his sister safely next to him does something to take the edge off his anger. He's still furious at his parents, but at least it has boiled down to more of a simmer than an inferno. I don't know how long he can keep it up, but he's calmed down enough that I can take my focus off him for a moment and risk a few questions of my own.

I open my mouth to speak, but Mrs. Hanover is faster. She turns to face me, her expression pleading. "Libby, didn't you explain about the other Ciphers to Milo?"

"Mrs. Hanover, I've never heard of Ciphers before. I can't explain anything right now."

"What do you mean you don't know about the Ciphers? How did you know to repeat Milo's Inquest? Didn't you speak to them?"

"No, I didn't speak to them," I say. "I don't even know who they are, or where they are. I have no idea about any of this. Celia was the one who gave me the idea to repeat the Inquest."

"Celia?" she asks. "So you really haven't been in contact with the other Ciphers?"

"No, I haven't."

Milo's parents look at each other. The bubbling hope that was in their eyes only moments before is starting to wane. If they start to think they've made a mistake with me, they'll run. I'll lose Milo forever. "Mrs. Hanover, please, can you just tell me what you know? If I need to speak to them, if they know what I'm supposed to be doing right now, please just tell me where they are."

Mrs. Hanover's shoulders slump in defeated amazement. I suddenly fear that she has no more idea than I do about where the Ciphers are, but when she speaks her quiet voice is laced with laughter. "The only way you can speak to the Ciphers is in the spirit world," she says.

"What? You mean they're dead?" I ask. Milo is the only one left? When they said there were others I assumed they were still alive somewhere. No wonder they tried to hide Milo. And if they're all dead, how am I supposed to save them?

"Dead?" Mr. Hanover asks. "Of course they're not dead. Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Um, the fact that the spirit world is filled with the spirits...of the dead," I say tentatively.

Mr. Hanover snorts in derision. "I can't believe the schools are still teaching that drivel to our children. Intentionally spreading lies to whole generations just to hide their dirty little secret. It's unbelievable."

"Dear," Mrs. Hanover says, putting a hand on her husband's arm, "you can rant about the shortcomings of public education later. Libby looks like she's about ready to explode if we don't explain what we know."

"Yes, please," I say.

"The spirits in the spirit world are not from persons who have passed on. They are from people locked there against their will. Every spirit there still has a physical body, but they are separated from it," she says. "They will remain there until someone releases them. Until you release them, Libby."

Mr. Walters lied to me when he said he didn't know or care what the spirits were or where they came from. Being a Seeker, he had to know about what the other Guardians were doing. Plus, he already knew Milo was a Cipher. He lied right to my face. That wild haired lunatic is going to get some not very happy words from me the next time I see him. Pushing away my irritation, I turn my attention back to Milo's parents.

"How can they be kept there?" I ask.

Mrs. Hanover frowns deeply. "They are captured by the Guardians and taken to what is basically a prison. Except these prisoners aren't monitored by Corrections Officers. These unfortunate prisoners are monitored by powerful Spiritualists. The Spiritualists they employ are powerful enough that they can reach into a person's spirit and tear it away. Not completely, of course, or they would die, but far enough away, locked in the spirit world. Because these prisoners have no talents of their own to use, they are incapable of escaping. The Spiritualists stay linked with them and monitor them every second of the day."

"How long do they keep them there?" I ask quietly.

"Until their physical body dies. It's a death sentence."

I sink into the couch in despair. No wonder even thinking about it makes her so sad. That could have been Milo.

"How do you know about them?" I ask.

"A man named Marcus Riley came to me one day at my counseling practice and tried to recruit me. He was the Warden of the Cipher prison in Akron. I hadn't even known there was a Cipher prison, or Ciphers, then. He offered me an exorbitant amount of money, but once he explained what I would be doing, I turned him down flat." She shivers at the memory. "And then a year later my own son was named a Cipher. I could never let him be taken to one of those places."

"But why are they holding them?" I ask. "What threat could a person with no talents possibly be?"

Mr. Hanover leans forward, his fingertips pressing together in front of him. "We wondered that as well. It didn't make sense. Even before Milo's Inquest we questioned the true purpose of these prisons. I started researching them, but found very little. The only reference I found to Ciphers was a passage in an old political book that mentioned the need for the prisons to protect the populace from what they might become. Become. That word piqued my interest. If the Ciphers could become something then they weren't really what we thought, talentless. Only, the Inquisitors apparently could do nothing to find these talents."

"And after watching Milo grow up so strong, fast, intuitive, and generally talented, I knew there had to be something more than what I was told," Mrs. Hanover adds, "but if a Inquisitor can't unlock the Ciphers' talents, who could? I decided to ask. It took a great many difficult trips to the spirit world before I was able to coax any of the spirits there into talking with me about it. Travelling to the spirit world is not my strongest area, but eventually I found one willing spirit, a young woman named Lacy. She was afraid to tell me too much because the Spiritualists were monitoring them very closely, but she said she overhead the Guardians who captured her talking about the Destroyer. She said they had to keep her locked up just in case the Destroyer ever actually appeared."

Mrs. Hanover takes my hands gently in hers. "After that, I knew all we could do was hide and wait for you to find us. You are the only one who can set those people free. You've already saved Milo, which is more than we ever hoped would happen, but your work isn't done yet, Libby."

Thoughts race, crawl, jump, and bash through my mind. They run into one another and explode into entirely new ideas and problems. No matter how hard I try to organize them, or sort them out, they just keep multiplying. How can this be true? Is it really possible that there is a whole layer of lore and actual practice in our society that the general population is completely ignorant of? With social networking and texting, blogs and gossip columns all over the internet, how has this never slipped out before now? What about the families of these Ciphers? Did they really never tell anyone? Or fight to get their sons and daughters back? Mr. and Mrs. Hanover can't possibly be the first ones to ever resist. What kind of threats did the Guardians level at them to keep them from exposing them? It's absolutely sickening to entertain that possibility. Even more sickening is thinking about the lives I'm sure have been taken in order to keep this secret.

Suddenly everything in my mind comes to a screaming halt.

"What if the Guardians find out what I've done to Milo?" I ask. "Won't they expect me to try and rescue the other Ciphers? What if they try to stop that from happening? What if they kill them all?"

I can't be responsible for the deaths of hundreds or thousands of innocent people. I just can't. My chest constricts painfully. Something tried to warn me not to tell Braden what I had done, but it was the only way to save Milo. He would have taken Milo if I hadn't told him something. I had to save Milo. I had to save him.

"Libby, dear. Please calm down, Libby. You haven't done anything wrong," Mrs. Hanover says. "The Guardians in charge of the prisons were alerted to your presence at the same time everyone else was."

"But I've been trying to convince everyone I'm not the Destroyer up until now. After tonight, no one is going to believe I'm harmless. The only way I could get the Guardian strike leader to leave Milo alone was to show him that Milo isn't a Cipher. He's going to tell his superiors. They'll know I can save the Ciphers. What if the Guardians murder every one of the Ciphers to keep me from rescuing them?"

"No," she says shaking her head, "no, they won't do that. They can't. All of those Spiritualists keeping the Ciphers locked in the spirit world are linked to the Ciphers. Killing the Ciphers will kill the Spiritualists too. They won't kill thousands of the most talented Spiritualists in the world."

"Not even to keep me from saving the Ciphers? I'm supposed to destroy the world, Mrs. Hanover. A few thousand lives to keep that from happening, I don't see why they wouldn't just do it." It's a cold assessment, but a logical one. A few thousand lives to protect billions, even the most soft-hearted person in the world would have a hard time turning down such an option.

Mrs. Hanover's fingers tighten painfully, her fingernails digging into my skin. "Libby, there are worse things in this world than destruction. Murdering the Ciphers while their spirits are locked away, it would be worse than anything you might do. Something terrible happens to a spirit if it is separated from its body permanently. I won't discuss it in front of Celia, but trust me when I say the Guardians will not kill the Ciphers."

The twisted, horrified quality of her features makes me pull back. Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath. I have no idea what she's talking about, but she already knows more about this whole situation than I do. And I have witnessed Celia waking from a terrified nightmare of Guardians ripping her from her bed. I won't be the one to usher in new nightmares if I can help it. I will definitely come back to this topic later, though.

"I was wrong before, when I said I'd never contacted the Ciphers," I say.

Everyone's countenance perks up. Milo and Celia nod as they realize what I am talking about. Lance notices this and frowns. Lance's expression changes from confused, to angry, and finally to hurt as I quickly relate the bitter details of my dad's death. Lance held me as I cried for hours in the days after my dad died. He and Jen both did everything they could to help me cope and eventually accept his death. And I never spoke a word of what happened to either of them.

Part of me feels guilty about that now, but the memory of his knife on my throat screams that I was right not to trust him. Was it really an act of pure conditioning, leaping at me like that? He's here now, though. When he kissed me in the hallway, when he made the Guardian Oath, he believed my lies about not being the Destroyer, but he knows the truth now and he still stayed. The honest pain in his aura that I never told him the truth about my dad pushes back on me. Before that night, what did he ever do to earn my distrust? He was thoughtless at times, obsessed with becoming a Guardian, and a dozen other minor faults, but he never once let me down. Any time I needed him, he was there.

Distracted by my guilt, Mrs. Hanover has to repeat her question several times before I finally hear her. "Libby? You haven't been able to contact the Ciphers since?"

"No," I say shaking myself.

"Hasn't your Spiritualism instructor been teaching you anything?"

My whole face scowls at the thought of that class. "Mrs. Sanchez prefers to pretend I don't exist. She helps the other students all the time, but she's yet to answer a single one of my questions. I listen to her lectures on theory and stuff like that, but it's just not helping."

"Well, of course it isn't. Spiritualism isn't something you can learn on your own. It is unique among the other talents because you _must_ have a guide to show you the way. It's not as simple as accessing latent strength in your muscles or pushing your thoughts into someone's mind. Everyone does that on some level naturally. Finding your way out of this world and into another is a journey that takes much more than simple directions." Mrs. Hanover's shoulders straighten seriously. "If your teacher at school won't guide you like she should, then I will. I won't let prejudice and incompetence keep you from saving the other Ciphers."

Someone who has a clue about what I should be doing with my Spiritualism helping me get over the walls I keep running into? I suddenly feel too giddy to even say anything. I feel light for a moment, as if the strings binding me to this earth are finally starting to lose their strength. The strain of failing so consistently was wearing on me fast. The possibility of finally being able to use all of my talents brings back a serious dose of energy to my body, but there is still something I don't understand.

"Mrs. Hanover, I'm going to do everything I can to help the other Ciphers," I say, "but this still doesn't help me figure out what I'm supposed to be doing as the Destroyer. I feel like I'm just wandering around lost most of the time. When we first started this conversation I hoped I was finally going to figure out my purpose in life. Freeing the Ciphers will be great, of course, but how does that really help me as Cassia?"

"Freeing the Ciphers has everything to do with your purpose," Mr. Hanover says. "You won't be able to do anything as Cassia without them."

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because they're your army."

Chapter 31

Planning

The icy air of late December stings my throat and lungs as I breathe, but I need its pure, clean essence to clear my mind. The absolute madness of everything that has happened tonight was just too much. I needed to escape the still volatile air inside the Hanover home for at least a few minutes. So I snuck out onto the deck, afraid, confused, and in need of some serious alone time. I just wish I had some chocolate. Chocolate always makes me feel better.

All I can feel right now is the tip of my nose going numb. My ears will be next. Numb is fine with me. The vast ocean of emotions, ideas, and thoughts that have been slamming against me for...I don't even know how long anymore, they just need to be frozen until I can sort them out. The absurd mental image of tiny snowflakes, each one containing an emotion or thought, lying on a table in front of me, that I can calmly organize into their proper categories, makes me laugh.

"It's too cold out here for anything to be funny," says a voice from behind me.

I spin around and freeze, like one of the snowflakes I was just imagining. My skin prickles with goose bumps as soon as I see him. "Guardian Braden," I gasp.

"You can just call me Braden."

My eyes narrow despite his politeness. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you I'd see you again," he says. He leans casually against the railing that surrounds the deck, but there is still a leonine readiness to his posture. His expression is warm, though, showing no hint of anything but amusement.

"How did you find me?"

Braden scoffs at my question. "It wasn't that hard. Your friend and his family didn't even change their names when they ran. I had their information in my files. Tracking down their address was simple."

My mouth twists into an angry sneer. "Yeah, I suppose the Guardians _would_ have resources like that."

"Actually," Braden says, pushing away from the baluster and taking a step toward me, which sends a warning shiver down my spine, "the only resource I needed was a phone book. Their number was listed right there in the white pages."

"Seriously?" I ask. What were they thinking? Yes, his dad is a doctor who likes to make sure his patients can always get a hold of him in an emergency, but they were supposed to be in hiding.

Braden takes another step toward me. "I've seen elephants that were better at hiding than your friend."

"Shut up," I snap. "You don't know anything about Milo."

"I'm pretty sure I know more than you do," he says.

I hate that he's probably right. No doubt his _files_ hold every detail of Milo's life. No matter how much a person is willing to share, there's almost always more that they aren't.

"What do you want?"

"Besides standing out here freezing with you in the middle of the night?"

He's not even a foot away from me, now. My flesh is humming, which is beyond strange and more than a little scary. He's staring at me intently again. That same look of trying very hard to figure something out is back. I wish I knew what it meant.

"Why are you really here?" I ask. "The Guardians aren't coming back for Milo, are they?"

Is he out here distracting me while his brothers sneak in and grab my boyfriend? My heart rate spikes, and I start for the patio door. Braden grabs my arm, not forcefully, but hard enough to stop me and keep me from running. Even under my jacket, the skin of my arm tingles violently at his touch.

"Nobody's coming after your friend. I'm not here because of him," Braden says.

"You're here for me?" I squeak, fear squeezing my throat. I just found out what I'm supposed to do. They can't take me yet!

"No. I'm not here for you. I'm a Cipher Hunter, that's it. They'll send someone else for you."

"I won't go without a fight. I hope Howe or Lazaro—whichever one is coming—knows that. I'm not ready to die."

Braden watches me, for what I don't know, but his eyes take me in very seriously. "You're not going to die," he says, "not yet anyway."

"What do you mean?" I broke my deal with Howe. Everyone knows now that I really do have the talents of the Destroyer.

"Howe is a monster of order. Technically, Milo was no longer a Cipher, so I had no authority to arrest him. You were in the right. Technically."

I shake my head. "No way that's enough to keep Howe from coming after me. Lazaro would never swallow that reasoning without a fight."

Braden cringes. "Well, unfortunately for both of them, what happened tonight is already being played around the world. It went viral on the internet about ten seconds after it aired. Milo isn't the first Cipher. Plenty of other families have lost children because of Guardians like me. When they saw what happened, saw you protecting a Cipher, they started a campaign to protect you. If Howe and Lazaro go against them, it will be a fight that will end both their careers. Permanently."

"Other Ciphers' families?" I ask in disbelief.

"Turns out you have a few more supporters than anyone realized," Braden says.

It's encouraging, but Braden said the Guardians weren't coming to kill me, not that they weren't coming at all. "What do the Guardians want with me then?"

He pulls me away from the door where someone might see us. My foot is still in an elastic bandage rather than a cast, and so sore and bruised that I don't think I could run from him even if my life depended on it. But I know it doesn't, somehow. It isn't Vision or any other talent reassuring me. It's something else, something I don't understand, but I find myself trusting it easily. Braden isn't here to hurt me. We are stowed away in a dark corner of the deck before he speaks again.

"Look, Libby, when I got the file on your friend, it was just another assignment. Track down the Cipher, bring him in. Simple." His hand comes up to my shoulder firmly. "You've changed that. I did what you asked. I told Captain Blackwood that your friend isn't a Cipher anymore. He agreed that there wasn't any point in bringing him in now, but there was something behind what he was saying. I could see the way his whole body tightened up like a piano wire. He dismissed me after that, but the whole compound started jumping.

But not killing. Milo's parents have to be right about the killing. I can't handle having that on my conscience.

"They're sending someone to come get you for questioning. They want to know how you unlocked Milo's talents and what you plan on doing with him now."

Braden's other hand comes up to my shoulder and he leans closer to me. "Libby, do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into? Whatever spooked the Captain, it's not good. Are you really planning something? Something that has to do with the Ciphers?"

Now it's my turn to scoff at him. "You really think I would tell you if I were? You're on the wrong team, Braden."

He shrugs with a hopeful expression, but his mouth slips back into a frown quickly. "If you are planning on coming after the Ciphers, you're going to get hurt."

"Shouldn't that make you happy?"

"Maybe," he says, moving closer, "but it doesn't."

I can hardly breathe with him so close to me. I can't explain it, but his presence seems to wrap itself around me. It's a strangely comforting feeling, but it freaks me out regardless. I try to back away from him. The rail behind me keeps me from getting very far. I'm way too strung out to be dealing with this right now, but my voice comes out strong and fierce when I finally pull myself together enough to use it.

"You really want to know what I'm planning?" I ask.

Braden nods, his nose bobbing much too close mine.

I came out here to figure things out on my own and failed. Strange that being faced with Braden is the catalyst that brings me to a decision.

"I am Cassia. And I'm going to do exactly what I was meant to do, Braden. I'm going to destroy the kind of people who lock up innocent citizens in the name of protecting people. I am going to come after your Captain and anyone else who thinks they can stop me."

I expect him to pull back, demand I change my mind, arrest me maybe, but he simply holds very still. When he speaks, the laughter in his voice surprises me. "I suppose that should scare me more than it does."

"You think I can't do it?" I demand.

He shakes his head grimly, grief edging into his expression. When he speaks his voice is soft and haunted. "Not at all. You took out my entire strike force tonight. I'm sure you can do anything you want."

"Then why aren't you scared?"

"Maybe because I'm not so sure I see what you're planning as wrong." He finally steps back from me and lets his hands slide from my shoulders, slowly, thoughtfully. I can't believe he's telling me the truth, but he's no Perceptive. He can't hide the honesty of his thoughts from me.

"Just try to be careful, okay?" he asks. Braden turns away then, ready to sprint back into the darkness he appeared from.

It's stupid, very stupid, but I can't let him go like that. There is something about him that affects me, and I find myself completely unable to ignore the sensation. "Braden," I call out quietly.

He turns back with a curious expression. "Yeah?"

"If you ever want to change teams," I say, "I'd be happy to have you." I want to die for even suggesting it, but I had to. He would be an indispensible asset. That's the only reason. Really.

He smiles lightly, and says, "I'll think about it."

Gone before I can blink again, Braden's smile and answer linger with me. As do my own words. Guardians are on their way to drag me off for questioning, but I feel a sense of peace settle over me. I have a plan. I'm really going to go through with it. Milo was the first to suggest attacking the Guardians. Saying I was hesitant then would be an understatement, but now I am absolutely committed. I meant what I told Braden. No matter what happens, I'm going to rescue the Ciphers.

All my life I have feared there is something dark and deadly inside of me. After tonight, after all the dead Guardians lying at my feet, I don't wonder anymore. I know. The power and ability to take life and destroy is inside of me if I choose to use it. I've made my choice.

I am Cassia. And I _am_ the Destroyer.

THE END

Keep reading for a sneak peek of Book Two of The Destroyer Trilogy

## Secret of Betrayal

Chapter 1

### Blood and Kissing

My life has been about betrayal from the moment I first drew breath. I should be used to it, expect it. But I never see it coming.

The plan to convince everyone I wasn't going to destroy the world unfortunately didn't work out very well. My little episode a couple of weeks ago where I took out a Guardian strike team almost single-handedly dashed that idea to pieces. The whole thing was televised on national TV. The only thing that saved me from a swift death was a surprising rally from allies I didn't even know I had. They saved me once, but that was a small miracle. I knew I had to come up with another plan if I wanted to stay alive. I just didn't expect it to be actually destroying the world. But that's exactly what I'm going to do. If I can survive my first day back at school, that is.

Things were going so well back when I had a broken ankle and the wary sympathy of everyone who saw me. Now everyone has returned to cringing away from my presence and whispering about me. I don't know why I expected this day to not be positively horrible. School is always a terrible experience for me. Ms. Sanchez, my Spiritualism teacher, is trembling at the front of the room. She's trying very hard to give her lecture without ever glancing in my direction. Her normally sharp, staccato voice is barely more than a whisper right now. Which is too bad, because even with my boyfriend's mom helping me develop my Spiritualism talent, I'm still struggling.

How long have I been in this class? It's got to be almost over, but I'm pretty sure I only sat down a few minutes ago. It feels like years. Just to be sure, I let my eyes wander away from my terrified teacher to find the clock. I know it hangs above the exit sign, but my gaze only makes it as far as the rectangular viewing window in the door below it. My body goes rigid with shock at the curious face staring back at me. His green eyes brighten when he sees my reaction.

I've already got my boyfriend, Milo, and my ex-boyfriend, Lance, irritating me to death with their suspicions of each other. I don't need this right now.

Suddenly he turns away from the door, making me lose sight of him. I bolt up from my chair, fearing that he is going to...I don't know what he might do, but I doubt I'll like it. Ms. Sanchez yelps and drops her book in response. It slaps against the ground and wakes up the rest of the class with a start. Nobody says anything. They just stare.

"I, uh...I have to use the restroom," I say quickly. No need to hide my Speed anymore. I have my bag packed in under a second, and I'm rushing out the door before anyone can take another breath. The door whooshes closed behind me with a noise so soft it sounds like a sigh, a grateful acknowledgement of me leaving. Even the building hates me.

I realize I'm standing in the middle of the hallway staring at the wall in front of me like an idiot, and wake myself back up. Where did he go? I glance around and nearly cry out when I find him standing right behind me. A good six inches taller than me, his presence instantly crowds me.

"Braden," I gasp, "what are you doing here?"

"I thought you might be happy to see me given your invitation to switch allegiances," he says, "but you didn't even give me enough time to move away from the door. If I knew you were that desperate for new recruits I would have come to see you sooner."

Irritation boils under my skin to the point of making my entire body itch. Cocky, arrogant jerk. I didn't make that offer because I was desperate. I mean, I am - I can use all the help I can get - but I only made the offer because having a Guardian on my side would be invaluable. After two weeks of quiet, I thought I was through with Braden surprising me. "I ran out here so fast to make sure you weren't going to try and kill any more of my friends."

"I only ever tried to arrest Milo, not kill him," Braden argues.

"I think you mean kidnap."

He stares me down. "Call it what you want. I still wasn't trying to kill him. And I'm not here to kill, arrest, or kidnap any of your friends this time, just so you know."

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

Stepping in closer to me, Braden is only inches away from me before I can think to stop him. My skin reacts with a strangely familiar burst of electricity. It's a weird feeling I don't understand in the least, and don't like. I shove him away from me and glare at him as I wait for his response.

"I'm here for you this time," Braden says.

A scouring flash of terror runs through me. I scramble and tap into my Vision to make sure he isn't going to try and kill me where I stand. It fizzles and doesn't tell me a thing. Luckily, my other talents are going strong. More than that, some instinct tells me Braden won't hurt me. He may try to kill me one day and prove me wrong, but my heart rate slows back down as I realize it won't be today. He takes a step back to reinforce my instincts, but his presence lingers on my skin a moment longer. I can't explain the way he affects me. He's a Guardian, a member of the brotherhood whose sole purpose in life is to murder me, but his brash curiosity and honesty refuse to let me really fear him. Or maybe it's more than that. The physical sensation touching him elicits isn't hormones. It's something else. It takes me a few seconds too long to take a step away from him.

"Why are you here, Braden?"

"Penance," he says with a grimace. I don't understand and he knows it. He leans back against a row of lockers with a frown and shoves his hands into his pockets. With a build somewhere between offensive lineman and dancer, Braden is obviously capable of taking care of himself, but his posture makes him look momentarily vulnerable. "Well, you didn't think I could lose my entire strike team to a girl and not be punished for it, did you?"

Is he actually here to accept my offer? I'm not sure how I feel about that possibility.

"Did you get kicked out of the Guardians?" I ask. A tiny sliver of guilt that I might have cost him his job tries to wriggle its way into my mind. Braden's laugh takes care of that.

"Kicked out? No. It's much harder to get out of the Guardians than you might think." He says it lightheartedly, but his expression darkens as he speaks. My own stomach turns queasy as I remember Mr. Walters, my Destroyer teacher, showing me the ugly scars that crisscross most of his body. He was not only a Guardian once, but a member of the elite, and very secret Seekers, as well. I still don't know how he got those scars, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. Braden and I may be pretty far from friends, but I don't necessarily want the same thing to happen to him, either.

"So what does your punishment have to do with you being at my school? If anyone sees you they're going to report you. You better go before we both get in trouble." Or before Milo or Lance see him. They have no idea that Braden came to see me later that night after he attacked Milo, but just the sight of him near me will put them both on the offensive. And after weeks of having to deal with each other, both convinced the other is going to get me killed, they are more than ready for a fight.

Braden doesn't look interested in leaving. "My punishment has everything to do with being at your school, Libby. And I wouldn't worry about people seeing me, or getting in trouble," he says cryptically.

"What do you mean," I ask. A sinking feeling is already gathering in my belly.

"People are going to see me a lot starting today, especially you," Braden says.

What does he mean by that? Does he want to be here...around me? I don't know how to take that comment. The reason he's here does finally sink in regardless of my confusion about his motives. My stomach drops out completely. I groan as I finally understand. "You're the new school Guardian, aren't you?" I heard that our old school Guardian had been transferred, but I hadn't thought much of it. Until meeting Braden, I thought one Guardian was pretty much the same as any other.

He nods, looking rather amused at my fallen countenance. He's enjoying this way too much for it being a punishment. "My captain thought a fitting reprimand for losing my team was to put me in charge of keeping a close eye on you. He thought it would be helpful to get to know you better for next time."

And I didn't think my day could get any worse. "Next time?"

"You know there's going to be a next time," he says gravely.

"Will you be there?" I ask.

Braden sinks against the locker, his expression truly serious for the first time. The color of caramel, his hair is too short to hide him, but he seems less oppressive, unsure. He sighs. "I don't know."

Not exactly the answer I was hoping for, but I suppose it's better than an emphatic yes. Braden only gave me the barest details about what happened when he told his captain that I had performed a second Inquest on Milo and unlocked his supposedly absent talents, but I suspected there was much more. Something changed Braden from willing Cipher hunter to possible defector. I told him that night that if he ever wanted to switch teams I would take him. Every time I think about the offer I tell myself it's purely because his inside knowledge will be invaluable, but to be perfectly honest I can't stand the thought of having to kill Braden. There is something about him that makes even the idea of hurting him turn my stomach.

He knows that's what it would come to as well as I do. For some insane reason I told him I'm going to go after the Guardians who are keeping all the supposedly talentless Ciphers locked away in the spirit world. If he stays with them, he'll be one of the ones I have to kill to rescue them. And I'll do it if I have to. The cold, logical side of me I hate listening to has already convinced me that as much as I believe Braden is a good person when you put aside his profession, his life isn't valuable enough to risk losing the Ciphers. Not when they're the only ones who can help me, the ones meant to be my army.

Pensive silence crowds around us, filling the empty hallway. The pressure of it pushes me toward Braden. I lean against the lockers next to him. I don't want to think about this anymore. As if in answer to my wish, Braden spins toward me so he has me trapped against the lockers before I can react. My heart lurches, but this time it's not in fear. And my mind is miles away from Ciphers. Braden's body is mere inches away from mine. His eyes are still troubled, but his wolf-like curiosity has returned. He presses in a little closer.

"You know," I say at barely more than a whisper, "I doubt the principal would approve of you standing so close to me. I'm a student, remember?"

"She's not around to see me, is she?"

"Braden, please," I beg.

"Please what?"

I could throw him across the hallway if I wanted to. I could grab his neck and snap it in two. But the confusion pulsing through me makes it hard to think. Part of me doesn't want to push him away. The rest of me says I don't know anything about him, and Milo would kill him if he saw him like this.

"Braden, let me go," I demand.

"Why?"

"Because you're making me uncomfortable."

He peers at me so intently I have to remind myself he has no Perception to know what I'm feeling right now.

"Uncomfortable," he says. "I would have chosen a different word."

"I don't care about your vocabulary skills. Let me go."

"I'm not keeping you here," he says. I cringe at the truth of his words. I could easily get away if I wanted to.

"What are you so worried about?" Braden asks. "Afraid one of your boyfriends will see you with me?"

"Lance is my ex," I remind him, "but yes. I doubt Milo would appreciate you standing so close to me. This might look a little hostile to him. Milo is very protective of me."

Braden hardly looks concerned. Taking a different route, I say, "Or he might make a different assumption and decide your interest in me is physical. He also tends to get a little jealous when it comes to me and other guys." Just ask Lance about that.

Braden seems to have lost all his earlier melancholy. His expression turns serious, with a hint of amusement. "Well," he says as his lips moves closer to mine, "if he's going to be jealous of me regardless..."

Alarm bells start blaring in my head. Even so, for a split second I hesitate. Then I shove him back with both hands. I expect him to laugh, or tease me, but the sudden burst of pain I feel from him surprises me. He tries to cover it up quickly, but I'm too good for him to elude. I approach him cautiously.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "I didn't shove you that hard."

"I'm fine."

He turns away. Shame rolls off of him, but with a heavy dose of pride as well. It takes a moment to realize the shame is for letting me see him in pain rather than for the injury itself. Whatever got him hurt, he thinks it was worth it. I didn't do this, but now I'm curious about who did.

I walk around to face him and ask, "Who hurt you?"

He doesn't look interested in telling me. I don't know why I should care, but the same oddity that makes my body react to his presence inspires a strange sense of protectiveness toward him. My need to know who hurt him makes me reach for the buttons on his shirt. His hands grab mine, but he doesn't push me back, just stops me from going any further.

"Let me see, Braden."

"Why do you care?" he asks, an intensity behind his question that startles me.

"I don't know," I admit, "but I want to know what happened."

You'd think Braden would be thrilled to unbutton in front of me given what he just tried, but his reluctant sigh is quite the opposite. He does seem to realize, though, that I am not going to back down. I need to know how badly he was hurt. Pushing my hands away slowly, he leaves them at my sides and takes his own hands back to his shirt. He unbuttons the first few buttons.

I know full well how this will look if anyone happens to walk up, but I don't really care at the moment. Another couple of buttons pop loose. The bright red crosshatching all over his chest makes me suck in a sharp breath. If I know the Guardians, they'll be covering his back as well. I took out his team two weeks ago, but apparently the Guardians aren't terribly swift with their punishments. These cuts still look fairly fresh. My fingers reach forward in awful fascination. I don't even come close to touching him. Braden grabs my hand immediately and pulls it back down.

"Was this part of your punishment?"

Looking at me without any doubts, he says, "Yes, but it was worth it."

Scared by his admission, I try to take a step back. When I don't get very far I realize Braden never let go of my hand. I yank it away easily and say, "Why would that kind of pain be worth it to you?"

"Does my pain make you doubt your decision to save Milo? Would you have made any other choice just to save me a little punishment?"

"No," I say.

"Because you knew you were making the right choice. And so did I. Forget you ever saw it."

I won't. Just like everyone else I know that has suffered under Guardian rule, the sight of his mutilated flesh will haunt me. But for now I will pretend.

I quickly begin to re-button Braden's shirt with the intention of getting away from him. The hint of fresh blood where I shoved him makes me falter for a second. I have to shake myself to finish closing up his shirt before anyone else sees the cuts. Not that there's anyone else out here with us, but I also want to get out of this hallway. Besides, I've already had one mortifying hallway incident when Lance tried to convince me to take him back by practically attacking me with his mouth. Milo witnessing that was worse than any of the thirteen broken bones I've had. I really don't want to repeat the experience.

Stepping clear of Braden, I change the subject in an effort to get as far away from blood and kissing as possible. "So, you're really going to be here every day, ghosting through the halls like a stalker?"

"Stalker? That seems a little harsh, don't you think?" he asks.

I throw him a baleful glare. "No. What else would I call someone who followed me and my boyfriend to the theater, tracked me down afterward, then shows up at my school and pins me against a row of lockers? I think stalker is the perfect word for you, Braden."

The bell rings, followed by the raucous hum of students trying to escape, but Braden seems completely unfazed. He steps behind me and brings his mouth right next to my ear. As the first students spill out of their classrooms, he whispers, "I'm not a stalker, Libby, I'm a hunter."

And then he disappears into the crowd.

## Acknowledgements

Thanks so much to my fellow writers on The Next Big Writer who helped me get this book into shape for publishing, and for their support during the process. Thank you Ann Everett, Linda Ulleseit, Apryl Baker, Angela Fristoe, Nancy DeMarco, Maggie Banks, Tess Black, Terri Wood, Madison Ready, Diane Shelton, C.E. Jones, Arianna Sofer, and Ingrid Seymour.

Thank you to my family and friends who have read, and re-read this book in order to give me their invaluable insights. I owe an especially big thanks to my husband, Ryan, for spending nearly as much time as I did with this series, for reading all three books several times and helping me fill in holes, spot errors, and keep my characters likable and entertaining.

## Also by DelSheree Gladden

_The Handbook Series_

The Crazy Girl's Handbook

The Oblivious Girl's Handbook

Eliza Carlisle Mystery Series

Trouble Magnet

The Catalyst

The Arcane Wielder Series

Life & Being

The Ghost Host Series

The Ghost Host: Episode 1

The Ghost Host: Episode 2

Escaping Fate Series

Escaping Fate

Soul Stone

Oracle Lost

(Coming Soon)

Twin Souls Saga

Twin Souls

Shaxoa's Gift

Qaletaqa

The Destroyer Trilogy

Inquest

Secret of Betrayal

Darkening Chaos

Someone Wicked This Way Comes Series

Wicked Hunger

Wicked Power

Wicked Glory

Wicked Revenge

The Aerling Series

Invisible

Intangible

Invincible

The Date Shark Series

Date Shark

Shark Out Of Water

The Only Shark In The Sea

Shark In Troubled Waters

## About the Author

DelSheree Gladden was one of those shy, quiet kids who spent more time reading than talking. Literally. She didn't speak a single word for the first three months of preschool, but she had already taught herself to read. Her fascination with reading led to many hours spent in the library and bookstores, and eventually to writing. She wrote her first novel when she was sixteen years old, but spent ten years rewriting and perfecting it before having it published.

Native to New Mexico, DelSheree and her husband spent several years in Colorado for college and work before moving back home to be near family again. Their two children love having their cousins close by. When not writing, you can find DelSheree reading, painting, sewing and trying not to get bitten by small children in her work as a dental hygienist. DelSheree has several bestselling young adult series, including "Invisible" which was part of the USA Today Bestselling box set, "Pandora." The "Date Shark Series" is her first contemporary romance series, now joined by her first romantic comedy, "The Crazy Girl's Handbook," and the comedic "Eliza Carlisle Mystery Series."

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