Conspiracy Boy (Angel Academy) Page 8

“Not a big deal? They’re moving your boyfriend in with you and your billionaire playboy fiancé, in the hopes that you’ll murder him and save their prophetic asses. Don’t you think that’s messed up?”

  “Luc’s not my fiancé,” I said. “And Jack’s not my boyfriend. And can we please not discuss the Elders’ asses? That’s not a good visual.” I tipped back the cup of coffee I’d swiped from the nurses’ station until the last drops disappeared down my throat. Holy crud, that was good.

  “Well, the news mags all say Luc’s your fiancé. And if Jack’s not your boyfriend, then what is he? Your babysitter?”

  “Definitely not my babysitter.”

  “And you’re not in denial, either.”

  I glared at him, tossing my empty cup into the garbage.

  “It’s still messed up. What are you gonna do, anyway? Like, sit on the couch and watch foreign movies together? If things get freaky, do you at least get to be in the middle?”

  “Don’t be gross.”

  “I’m being realistic. You and Luc have been functionally engaged for months. You’re nuts if you think the Immortals will ever let you run off with Mr. S.” He coughed into his fist. Again.

  He’d been doing that for an hour, ever since I’d arrived after school let out. It took him nearly two minutes to get it under control this time, and when he finally pulled his hand away, the inside of it was flecked with blood.

  It hurt my heart to look at it.

  “Lyle, do they know what’s wrong with you? I mean, apart from the obvious?” I put a hand to his forehead. “Whatever it is, I can probably heal you—”

  “Nuh-uh.” Lyle grabbed my wrist and gently lowered it. “Gunderman thinks I’m filtering Crossworlds taint, and they can’t figure how to stop it. Doc said no contact with Channelers. And you, my dear, are definitely a Channeler.”

  “But I’m the best healer in school.”

  “Maybe for Smith-Hailey, you are. But for me, you’re dangerous. And don’t think I don’t know what that means.” He gave me a significant look then waggled his eyebrows. “By the way, I’m officially taking you off my pref list. Even if you do have the perkiest rack in the senior class, I don’t go for bonded girls. Bondage girls, on the other hand—”

  I couldn’t help it. He’d earned a smack for that comment.

  “Ow,” he said. “Fine, you’re more than a perky rack. But even the killer legs and psychotic desire to slaughter demon things won’t get you back on my list. I stand firm. I will not poach another man’s quarry. I shan’t till another man’s field.”

  “Oh, good grief.”

  “I won’t pollute another man’s drinking well, lay seed to his garden—”

  “Stop. Seriously.” I cut Lyle off before he went all biblical on me. “Henry thinks the only way I can develop my Wraithmaker abilities is if I channel with Jack, and the Immortal Synod figures Luc needs someone to protect him from Petra, the unkillable assassin girl. And the Elders want Inferni to stop dying. So, short of giving me a stabby knife and forcing me and Jack into an abandoned hotel in the mountains, they think moving him in is the best answer.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we should go to an Icelandic beach until everyone calms the hell down. Or at least until someone figures out how to get this stupid prophecy done without me.”

  “Or until the world ends.”

  “That, too,” I confirmed. “Are you going to drink your coffee?”

  Lyle shoved his over-creamered, uber-sugared excuse for coffee toward the edge of the tray. “Are you going to be okay with this?”

  “What do you mean?” I downed his sickly sweet beverage in about two swigs.

  “You and Jack. If anyone at school finds out you’re bonded, they’ll—” He paused. “I don’t know what they’ll do, but it can’t be good.”

  “In theory, they’ll have to either split us up or approve the bonding. Or kick us out of the Guardians,” I added. “That’d be pretty cool. Except if they want me to kill him, I don’t see any of that happening.”

  “True enough.” My friend chewed his wad of French fries thoughtfully then grabbed another handful. He shoved that in, too. “What about Luc? You said he showed up?”

  “Mmm. With a woman.”

  “Classy.”

  “She was,” I said. “At least five grand per day.”

  That sent him into another fit of hacking coughs. “I take it he’s not acting husbandly yet?”

  “Brilliant deduction. He did save my life, though. Again. That’s all mentally filed in Reasons Not to Kill and Eat Him.”

  I gave the fries an unsubtle shove toward Lyle. The nurse’s report said he’d eaten everything in sight since they brought him in. Despite the chowfest, though, he’d been losing weight at an alarming rate. The least I could do was keep him eating. I figured if he didn’t die or slip into a coma, I had a better shot of being allowed back for another visit.

  “On a related note, Jack has the best kill stats of any operative in the history of the Enforcement Guild. Including my mom,” I said. “If he’s fully bonded to me, there’s no limit to what we can kill. Maybe Akira would approve it.”

  “A Son of Gabriel matched with a Daughter of Lucifer? Yeah, that’ll fly.”

  “Shut up and eat your French fries.” I flicked a glob of ketchup at his face.

  He licked it off as he chuckled. “You realize this whole idea is destined for failure, right?”

  I didn’t answer. Failure seemed optimistic, if you asked me. Even if I did know how to fulfill this stupid prophecy, it’s not like I could do anything until I figured out a method that didn’t include sticking a sword through someone’s heart. And the only time Jack and I had faced off with Petra the killer supermodel, I got my ass handed to me. Violently. Likewise, if Dominic really wanted me dead, I wasn’t sure I could stop him. Half the teachers in school probably wanted to assassinate me. How hard could it be?

  Lyle popped the last French fry in his mouth and turned a covetous eye toward my plate. “You gonna eat that cheeseburger?”

  I shoved the food at him across the hospital bed. Color already pinked his cheeks—from the food or the gossip, I had no idea.

  “It’s still screwed up,” Lyle said, chomping happily. “But what can I say? Better you than me. Can I have your Jell-O, too?”

  “You have four stomachs, I swear.” I glared at him but shoved the side of Jell-O his way. It still amazed me that no matter what one’s species—human, angel, or were-creature—the gelatinous quality of hospital food remained constant.

  “I’m just peeved I won’t get to meet Lady Montaigne,” he noted, dipping a spoon into the orange globby stuff. “I hear she’s hot. And vampire chicks dig snacking on younger men. She’d totally go for me.”

  Yup. As conversational partners go, a convalescing, morally flexible bag of teenage hormones with a penchant for cologne and hair product wasn’t my top pick. But he was better than nothing.

  “On that note, I’m leaving,” I said, gathering my empty tray. “Glad you’re feeling better. Call me if you have anything useful to say.”

  “Never happen,” Lyle agreed around a mouthful of Jell-O. “Be careful, okay? I worry about you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, guys can be territorial. Mr. S, especially. And when it comes to him, you’re about as subtle as a nuclear power plant.”

  “Exaggerate much?”

  “Do I?” He glared at me skeptically. “Do me a favor, Ami. Close your eyes for a second.”

  I paused at the door, eyes closed.

  “Now think about the last time you saw him talking to Hansen. How he leaned in close and whispered in her ear. Did he touch her shoulder or laugh at something she said? Picture it.” Lyle paused to give me a chance to envision the torturefest he was describing. Already images crystallized in my brain—my bondmate and the gorgeous instructor he dated in high school.

  My belly tightened as I watched them together in my head. Touching.
Laughing.

  “Now open your eyes.”

  I cracked an eye. The air around me shimmered imperceptibly, but there wasn’t anything obvious about it. Nothing like what had happened at the wharf last night.

  “I’m fine,” I said defiantly. “See?”

  “Look at your hands.”

  Unwittingly, my gaze dropped to my hands, which clenched the cafeteria tray. Sure enough, my skin had taken on that faint, luminous glow, like I’d absorbed the sun or gone swimming in gold-colored toxic waste.

  Okay, I admit the ignore-it-and-hope-it-goes-away plan wasn’t my most solid, but what options did I have? Run away and start a war? Explain to Akira that I couldn’t kill Jack because we were secretly bonded, totally in love, and planning to ditch Luc as soon as I got legal?

  They’d be lining up to murder me.

  “I’m just saying,” Lyle pointed out, his gaze drifting back to my hands, “you need to figure something out, or you’re going to get everyone killed.”

  “Story of my life, Lyle,” I said. “Story of my life.”

  I decided to walk home from the hospital. Given the snow patches littering the streets and the fact that I still felt like a walking ice cube, it probably wasn’t the brightest idea. But I didn’t care. I’d have frozen anyway. At least the chill left a nice reminder of Lyle facedown on the ground last night—the awful echo of his soul as it slipped through my fingers.

  I’d felt it. I’d called it back.

  Now I just had to figure out how to control the power.

  By the time I got back to the Quarter, it wasn’t snowing anymore. Enough breeze still swished around to give the impression of falling flakes, though, like tiny tulle-clad dancers turning pirouettes through the air. I opened my mouth to catch a few on my tongue.

  When Lisa and I were little, before we started manifesting serious power, we used to pretend snowflakes were fairy candy nuggets, each one with special abilities. Invisibility. Teleportation. The power to fly. I wonder if she knew back then what powers she had—what we would become.

  I shivered, from the memory or the weather, I wasn’t sure. Before I could delve too far into self-pity land, my phone gave a buzz signaling an incoming text.

  You okay? Got a weird vibe for you just now, Jack texted, and my stomach gave a happy flutter. This had happened a few times recently—when I felt something, seconds later, he’d check on me. I liked it, feeling connected.

  I’m good, I replied. Heading back to Luc’s.

  K. Be careful.

  I always am, I typed, and then added, I love you. You know that, right?

  I’m counting on it, he replied. See you soon.

  Backpack slung over one shoulder, I hurried through the servants’ entrance to the kitchen, where Marguerite stood with her back to me, gray hair knotted in a French twist.

  When I had to be at Luc’s place, I tried to stay in the kitchen as much as possible, even though Marguerite constantly threw me out. Honestly, this was the only room that didn’t smell like old, rich people. Today, creamy scents of aioli and parmesan wafted through the air, punctuated by the buttery sweetness of hot rolls in the oven. I took one look at the bubbling vat of pasta and gave myself the luxury of a long, slow breath.

  No perfume. No metallic tinge of jewelry or musk of fur. Just food.

  I loved the smell of food. Tater tots and frozen pizza were okay if I was at school or hanging with Lyle. But nothing compared to real, solid, fresh food like I used to cook for me and Dad.

  “That smells amazing.” I dropped my bag onto the floor with a thunk.

  Without blinking, she picked it up and set it on the counter. “You’re late, love. Fancy a washup before dinner?”

  I grabbed an apple and hopped up beside my bag, legs swinging from the smooth granite slab. “In a minute. I missed you at breakfast. How was your day?”

  “If you’d been at breakfast, you’d know that Lady Arianna arrived this morning and Annabelle’s fit to be tied. A better question, dear, is how was yours?”

  “How come we’re eating early?” I asked, eager to avoid the topic. “Come to think of it, how come we’re eating at all? Isn’t the household diet mostly blood based?” I scooped a spoonful of batter out of Marguerite’s bamboo mixing bowl and stuck it in my mouth. As expected, the cornbread pudding blended brilliantly with the apple.

  She snatched the spoon back.

  On a normal day, Marguerite might make a pizza for me, and Luc might have a bottle of something suspicious-looking. If he had to impress one of his human counterparts for a business lunch or whatever, he might eat some crackers and cheese or pick at a sandwich. Pretty standard for an Immortal—they could eat food, but for the most part, they stuck with willing blood donors. I shuddered to think of my culinary future if I ever went full demon viral.

  Either way, this level of food prep was unprecedented.

  Above the island, half the copper pots that usually hung suspended from a rack had been taken down and held bubbling red and white sauces on the stove top. The normally shimmering stainless steel appliances and cherry cabinets were coated with a thin sheen of white flour, and rags lay in partial use on the countertops. It was the kind of place where you could cook for hundreds, and today it looked like Marguerite had decided to do just that.

  “We’re having guests, aren’t we?” I probed. “Anyone cool? Rock stars? Professional serial killers?”

  “Best not to ask.” Marguerite smiled. “Now, off you go. His Lordship left specific instruction that you be presentable when they arrive. If I fail him, I’ll surely be drawn and quartered.”

  “Don’t be silly. Luc doesn’t draw and quarter on weekdays,” I scoffed. “Actually, I need to ask you something. It’s serious.”

  “If I answer, will you go to your room?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then yes”—she nodded—“there will be chocolate for dessert.”

  “Awesome. But that’s not what I was going to ask.” My apple crunched loudly in the echo chamber of Luc’s cavernous kitchen. “You’ve been with the Montaignes for a long time.”

  “Twenty-seven years,” she replied. “Now, off you go.”

  “But—”

  “I answered the question. That was the deal, was it not?”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t a question. That was a statement you voluntarily elaborated on. Which means you still owe me a question.”

  She kept stirring. “Do continue.”

  “Okay, so if you’ve been here forever, you must have known Dominic, Luc’s dad. Which means you must know why he left the family.”

  I watched her impassive face, perfectly neutral. She did, after all, work with Annabelle. Obviously, she’d had a lot of practice managing difficult people.

  “It had to have been something serious, which means you probably can’t talk about it,” I guessed, “so that would be a pointless question.”

  To that, she gave an almost involuntary affirmative grunt, along with a shrug.

  “So, if Dominic put a hit out on me, it must mean he thinks I pose some sort of threat either to him or to something or someone he considers important. I’m guessing you don’t know what that is, or if you do, you can’t tell me.”

  At this point, Marguerite took a deep breath and set down her spoon. “Is there a question here?”

  “I’m getting to it,” I said. “Now, usually the things people are ordered to silence about are either political or shameful. This is probably both, considering how hush-hush everyone is. And considering the Immortal Synod and the Guardian Council had a meeting about it today, there’s a pretty decent likelihood Dominic is at least as dangerous as Lisa. Which means they’re going to start hunting him, if they haven’t already. And all the political crud Arianna is pulling right now is probably to get sympathy so more people will kick in resources to hunt him.” I paused. “Which means she must be pretty scared. I just don’t know why. Or how she expects me to help her.”

  Marguerite gave me the half tur
n of annoyance I knew so well. “Your question?”

  “Oh, right. On a scale of one to ten, how afraid for my life would you say I should be living with the Montaignes?”

  “Seven point five.” Marguerite frowned. “Now, off with you. And take your allergy medication. You look beastly.”

  Which proves it’s never too late to be treated like a twelve-year-old.

  As much as I wanted to stay and pump her for more info, experience had taught me all that’d earn me was cold food at mealtime. Instead, I kicked off my boots, dropped my apple core in the sink, and headed up the narrow back stairs, taking them two at a time.

  The uneven floorboards made soft impressions through my sock feet. Although I’d only been here a few months, the pattern had become familiar to me, like the wrinkles of a grandparent’s face. It was one of the things I loved about old houses. Each warp and buckle of the hardwood is part of its story—a hundred humid summers, the fury of a torrential hurricane. Sometimes I swore I could hear the place breathing.

  The hallway pulsed out a creepy welcome as I made my way past silk-papered walls with dark mahogany wainscoting and heavy crown molding. To one side, the hall dropped off to a spiral staircase curving down to an oblong foyer with a huge grand piano. To the other, row upon row of huge wooden doors stretched out, each knob polished to a crystal sheen. I shouldered my way into my room and dumped my pack on the floor.

  It unsettled me, this room.

  Luc had gone out of his way to create it, and I knew he’d meant well. But it wasn’t the same. The original version—the one at my old house—had a completely different feel.

  Even now I could remember driving to Target with Mom and gripping her fingers as we walked down the aisles. My hand felt so small in hers, the way my toy rag doll’s felt in mine.

  I remembered running my thumb along the scars from her Enforcement marks, thinking how beautiful they were. Strength and courage and fortitude and truth—all the things I wanted to be when I grew up. Even though she’d decided to embrace the human life, and her demon-slaying days were over, she would always be those things to me.

  She would always be my hero.

  Eventually, the moment came when I settled on the Hello Kitty comforter set, but I wasn’t quite ready to end the day. So I made her sit there in the store, holding up the three top picks again and again, debating their merits, so I could pretend to deliberate the choice. And she did it, happily. Because the important thing wasn’t the comforter at all—it was us. As long as we were together, nothing else mattered.