Acropolis (6 page)

"I'm okay, Mom. I . . . I don't know where
I'm at . . . ."

Clean, she isn't an ugly girl, our Emma
Chase. She isn't remarkable, isn't mesmerizing, but she is pretty.
Quietly so. She is too skinny though. My shirt hangs on her frame,
and she is awkwardly rolling up the sleeves as she balances the
phone between her ear and shoulder. She isn't anything like Dayton,
the girl I thought I loved. It is Dayton herself that has begun to
make me doubt this.

"They've told me the same thing. D-do you
think it's true?"

Her hair is dark, Dayton's is red. She
prefers beige bras, Dayton prefers pink. I haven't slept with
Dayton, by any means, but I have caught plenty of glimpses of her
bra. She has a thing for off-the-shoulder shirts.

"I don't want to be sick, but I don't want to
be a m-monster either."

There are tears in her voice, left unshed. It
makes me feel like a cad. She is being faced with a life-changing
moment, one that could destroy her, and I am comparing her bra
color with Dayton's. And yet . . . she is the first girl in a long
time I have found myself comparing to Dayton. And I don't even know
her. The fact that I have spent a good deal of our very short
acquaintance keeping her from killing people unintentionally and
hurting herself in the process makes it that much more odd. This is
new.

"Are you okay, Mom? Please tell me you're
okay."

I don't want to cut their conversation short,
but her five minutes are up.

"Please be okay, Mom. I don't think they are
going to let me come home just yet."

I move behind Emma, my hand coming to rest on
her shoulder. She jumps. I let my arm fall over her head, my free
hand tapping my wrist just under her nose. Five fingers. Five
minutes.

"You're okay?" she asks her mother again.

I catch snatches of conversation from
the other line.
Going . . . be fine.
Her mother is in safe hands. We never leave the families of
adopted hybrids in the dark unless they pose a problem.

"You're sure?" Emma continues stubbornly.

I try pulling the phone from her hand, but
she fights me, her fist clenched as she moves with the receiver.
I'd never admit it, but I respect her for fighting for the extra
moments with her mother.

"Mom, I love you. No matter what, remember
that I love you," she breathes as I wrestle her for the phone. She
is stronger than she looks, but in the end, I win. I grab the cell
phone triumphantly and bring it to my ear.

"Your daughter is going to be fine, Mrs.
Chase. Just fine."

With this said, I disconnect the line. Emma
looks in danger of collapsing.

"Do you feel better now?" I ask.

Her forehead is creased, and her hair a
tangled, drying mess around her shoulders. It makes her look
wild.

"She's not sure I should trust you," Emma
says, her amber eyes meeting mine. "But she told me she hopes
you're right . . . that I am what you say I am." Her shoulders sag.
"She wants so badly for me not to be sick. She said they told her
half-Demons can be rehabilitated."

Harrison has done his job well. He is part of
our Collateral team. Collaterals are gargoyles left behind to clean
up messes Escorts and Guardians leave behind. This includes dealing
with families. Most of the time, hybrids are either homeless or
raised by their Demonic parent, but there are cases like Emma's
where they are adopted. None are as unique as hers. None have been
in the system as long. And they don't have her powers. But, in
these cases, families are always counseled. If it appears the
family can't handle what we have to tell them, we erase their
memories, and the hybrids are forbidden ever to return home. But
none of this will reassure Emma.

"Some hybrids never need rehabilitated, Em.
Some are never really evil. They just have to learn how to use
their powers."

She looks up at me, her eyes wide.

"Powers?"

She says it breathlessly as if she
hasn't considered the idea until now. I move away from her, pulling
a drawer open in my desk before grabbing a hairbrush and throwing
it in her direction. She catches it without blinking, her eyes
distant. If we can get past her fight and flight response, she is
going to be easy to train. She has the reflexes, the instincts.
Hell, she has the
fight
.

"Most hybrids have powers inherited from
their Demonic parent. Until trained, the powers are dangerous," I
explain. I don't tell her she is one of the hybrids with powers.
Incredible powers.

She nods, but I'm not really sure she hears
me. She starts pulling the brush through her hair slowly, as if the
gesture is comforting. Simple routines are familiar. They are like
old friends, a trusty anchor in a sea of chaos. This I
understand.

Emma keeps getting the brush caught on
tangles, and she works through them patiently, methodically. I see
her lips moving, and I realize she is counting. One, two, three . .
. .

"Come with me," I say softly. "We have a lot
to tell you, but not a lot of time."

She drops the brush as we move out of the
room. The counting starts over.

"One, two, three, four . . . ."

By the time we reach the kitchen, I know it
takes fifty-two steps to get there from my room, and I notice Emma
looks a little calmer. The counting is a coping mechanism. We all
have them, I suppose.

The smell of frozen pizza and Chinese takeout
overwhelms me, and my mouth waters. Mom loves cooking shows,
especially Paula Deen, but she can't cook worth a damn. We subsist
off a drawer full of takeout menus, categorized by nutritional
value. Mom is nothing if not prepared.

"She's slated for a term, maybe more," Roach
says as we enter the room.

The kitchen is made for company. It is full
of white cabinets and wooden countertops, all gleaming. The floors
are a burnt caramel color, stained concrete with a mosaic pattern.
The appliances are all stainless steel, and there are large French
doors that look out over a landscaped garden and pool. There is a
rectangular, mahogany table to the side of the room. It doesn't
match the rest of the furniture, and it is scarred. It is also
antique. It had belonged to my father's family, and my mother and I
can't let it go.

My mother, Roach, and Will are all seated at
the table. Containers of food surround them. Gargoyles have an
appetite, especially after a job. Roach starts to say something,
but my mother stops him, motioning to us instead.

"You look much better," my mother says, her
eyes on Emma. If Emma responds, I don't hear or see it. "Come, take
a seat. Eat."

I move to the table and pull out a chair.
Emma watches me as I step away, indicating the empty seat before
taking the chair next to it. My mother is present. Even if I wasn't
naturally chivalrous, I damn well better be. Eighteen or not, mom
has no trouble taking me by the ear.

Emma takes her seat, her back rigid. She
isn't counting anymore. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glinting.
She had seemed fine alone with me in my room, but she is sliding
back into fight mode. If I touch her now, I know she will be warm,
hot even.

"Has Conor told you what you are?" my mother
asks sweetly as she slides food across the table. Mom is blunt.
Emma nods.

"You don't need to be afraid. This isn't
necessarily bad news, Emma. It could open up a whole new world for
you."

Mom's voice is firm but soothing. To most,
she appears high maintenance, even cold, but it is a defense
mechanism. She has a soft heart. Losing my father, being a gargoyle
Guardian, and raising a gargoyle son means developing a tough hide.
And tough hides can come across as rough. I know better.

"What will you do with me?" Emma asks
suddenly, her voice hesitant.

Mom looks over at Will who immediately stands
up and moves across the kitchen. He pulls a coffee mug out of the
cabinet and fills it. I haven't noticed the pot of hot coffee. I
have been too busy digging into a container of Kung Pao chicken.
Roach, now sporting a Def Leopard T-shirt and jeans, is nibbling on
pizza, his chair rocked back so only three legs are on the floor.
Mom looks ready to pop him. I want to laugh, but don't. The clothes
he wears now had been left behind by a gargoyle friend of mine with
a penchant for grunge who had been doing a job in our area.

"I made some phone calls and learned you have
an affinity for coffee," mom says, her eyes still on Emma as Will
returns to the table.

Mom takes a brown stone mug from him and lays
it in front of Emma. I notice Emma drinks her coffee black. Again,
a no-nonsense kind of girl. I don't know whether to be annoyed with
my mother or relieved she has taken the trouble of learning
something about my mark. Emma is my job, but our home is one of six
gargoyle safe houses in the South. We live in Lodeston,
Mississippi, and it is Mom's job to know as much as she can about
the marks that come through. Our next stop is the French
countryside. The Acropolis.

"We don't have nefarious plans for you, Emma.
We have only good intentions," Mom says before reaching across the
table to take Emma's hand in her own. Emma jerks, but Mom holds on.
"There's a school for Demons called the Acropolis. You'll go there,
train, and then you will be given a choice—return to society with
enough control over your powers to live normally or work with
us."

Emma is struggling against Mom's hold. It is
obvious she isn't a fan of being touched.

"I still don't understand why everyone
keeps mentioning powers. I
don't
have powers," Emma mumbles. She wins the power struggle with
my mother and tugs her hand free. Mom sits back, her eyes
narrowed.

"You didn't tell her?" Mom asks. I avoid her
gaze.

"She isn't ready," I say.

"And you get to decide that?"

I look my mother in the eyes.

"It's better we wait."

Emma is aware of what she is. Telling
her who her real mother is can wait until we are safely at the
Acropolis. I'm not trying to protect her. I'm trying to protect the
rest of us. Mom didn't look happy, but in the end, Emma is
my
mark. My decision overrules my
mother's. And Mom knows I've been demoted. I need every brownie
point I can get at the moment.

"This is all yours," Mom says, her hands held
up. Roach snorts.

"You are an idiot," he says shrewdly. I feel
my blood boil even as my mother slaps Roach in the back of the
head. One of these days, Roach and I are going to meet on my terms
in a nice old fashioned gargoyle brawl. Emma sits back.

"When are you taking me to this school?" she
asks.

I keep expecting her to fight me, to badger
me for the answers to a million questions I know are floating
around in her head, but she keeps pulling the rug out from under my
feet. She always does the opposite of what I expect. During the
Extraction, her only concern had been her mother. And now, when we
are sitting here discussing her as if she isn't even in the room,
she just listens rather than angrily beating me on my chest with
her fists while begging to know what my mother is talking about.
Instead, she is docile. It is a little disconcerting. And, to be
honest, it is fascinating.

"Soon. We'll leave in the morning. The longer
we stay here, the more danger you're in." I say.

This time, she does look at me, her eyes
wide.

"What do you mean danger?"

I lean closer.

"What you are is dangerous. Period. And as a
hybrid Demon, there are those out there who would want to use
you."

She leans away from me, her lips moving
silently. She is counting again.

"Everything you need to know, you'll know
soon. I promise."

She doesn't answer. She just keeps on
counting.

"One, two, three . . .

Chapter 8

Emma

The table has grown quiet. The food is almost
gone, and the gargoyles have spent most of the afternoon discussing
their plans. They seem to know a lot about me. From what I've
gathered, they have access to both my adoption and medical records.
I know little about them.

The sky outside the French doors is
darkening. I am spending the night here. I should be relieved, but
I'm not.

"She can have my room," Conor says. "I'll
sleep on the floor."

This doesn't get a good response.

"She needs to be locked up," Roach grumbles.
Will gives him a hard look.

"She's just a girl, Roach. Lighten up a
little."

Conor's mom stands up.

"Your room is fine, Con, but you won't be
sharing it," Bea says firmly.

Conor stands opposite her. My gaze moves
between them. I know I should be upset that they keep referring to
me as if I'm not present, but I honestly like that they seem to
keep forgetting I'm here. Good guys or not, they are strangers and
that makes them dangerous.

"She's my job, Mom. She can't be left without
supervision."

The word "supervision" makes me feel like a
five-year-old child. Couldn't he have used the word "protection" or
even "company"?

"I'm well aware of what she needs, Son, and
I've made arrangements."

This gets my attention. I stand anxiously as
Conor leans across the table.

"Arrangements?" he asks, his voice low. His
accent has deepened.

Bea's eyes never leave her son.

"Rachel, you can come in now," Bea calls out.
Conor doesn't look away from his mom, but he does narrow his
eyes.

"You're serious?" he whispers furiously.

"As a heart attack," his mom replies, smiling
sweetly.

"Should I be concerned you seem so opposed to
the idea?" a female voice asks, and I turn slowly. My heart rate is
back up again, and I know my temp is definitely higher than 103. I
hear chairs scrape against the floor, and I know Roach and Will are
standing now too.