ARC: Cracked (7 page)

I’m too thin, almost gaunt from my stay at the asylum, and pale. Crack-addict thin and pale. The cut on my cheek’s no longer bleeding and adds a nice element of disreputableness, so I peel off the Band-Aid to show it off. With the black haircut, black-inked eyes and outfit I look like the kind of high-schooler that makes parents appreciate their own children. Perfect.

I join the rest of them in the living-closet where there’s (slightly) more room.

“Wow!” Uri gapes. The peanut gallery approves. “How did you do that?”

“I’m good at cutting” – briefest pause – “hair.” I think Jo catches my cleverness as the sharpness returns to her eyes. She says nothing, though, as she passes me a pair of men’s socks and a beat-up pair of black Converses.

Chi’s flopped on the couch trying to keep a pen standing on the tip of his tongue. He pauses long enough to check out my outfit, which earns a “Badass!” Uri plops down next to him and looks around, probably for a pen.

Jo slumps in the bile-beige recliner, eyes on her lap. “We need to hang out here till breakfast, then we’ll join everyone else in the cafeteria.”

I sit on the floor and put on my footwear. Uri finds a pen and he and Chi compete in the pen-tongue balancing game. Jo rips the Velcro on her leg brace, pats it back down, then rips it up again. Silent minutes, save for the repeated ripping, pass.

“How long till breakfast?” I ask.

“Ine-eerty,” offers Uri, losing his pen mid-worthless answer. He rubs the slobber off his face. “9.30.” It has to be close to 8. Kill me.

“So, what do I need to know to be Emma?” I ask. That seems to crack Jo out of her shell. She blinks up out of her misery, but doesn’t answer. “Jo?”

“Right.” She sits up straighter. “Fortunately no one likes Emma so you shouldn’t have to say much.”

“How can they not like her if they can’t even recognize her?”

Jo shrugs. “She refused the Inheritance.” I have no idea what that means so Jo clarifies. “She doesn’t want to be a Crusader.”

Smart girl. From what I can tell, the life of a Crusader sucks. “That seems harsh,” I say.

That’s enough to make Chi remove the pen. “How can you decide
not
to fight evil?” Chi really does have a good heart, but then maybe his bravery is influenced by the fact that he doesn’t know how many times he almost died tonight.

And let’s be honest, there’s still a possibility.

Meda!

Kidding, Mom. Kidding.

“We’re already outnumbered. The more who refuse to help, the more dangerous it is for the rest of us.” This from Jo, the pragmatist. “In any case, you’re the shame of your parents, your community – no one likes you. Your dad, Elijah, and my dad are brothers. Your mom, Becka, became a Templar when they married, so you have lots of normal non-Templar cousins.”

“And a weird name,” adds the kid named Uriel. Seriously.

I’m lost. “What?”

They explain that Templars descended from the original Knights Templar, a religious order formed in the twelfth century. Their original goal was to protect pilgrims who wanted to visit the holy lands. Pilgrims were often good people willing to risk their lives to worship God. Some of them even had the potential to improve the world – Beacons. Demons figured this out and started picking them off, not that they needed a lot of help in those dark and dangerous days.

To even the odds, the original core group of Templars were granted special abilities by heaven along with special responsibilities – defeat demons, protect Beacons. The problem was, they were good at their job. Too good, though they managed to keep the reason a secret. Religious and world leaders took interest and started using the Templars for their own purposes. They forced them to recruit new members to expand their ranks, but these new members weren’t given the secrets or powers that the originals and their descendants had. Eventually they were infiltrated by evil people controlled by demons and the whole thing went awry. The original Templars tried to restore its original purpose and, as a result, were violently disbanded in the fourteenth century. Many were executed, but some escaped underground. The surviving descendants regrouped. So only descendants of the originals have special powers.

“Oh, and anyone who marries a Templar,” Uri adds.

“But how?” I ask.

They all blink at me.

Finally Uri answers, “Because God says so.”

Fair enough.

“Templars are born with minimal extra powers – a little stronger, a little faster – until we undergo a ceremony on our thirteenth birthday,” Jo continues.

“Some descendants of the original Templars are still out there, but they just don’t know what they are,” Chi explains, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “We try to keep an eye out and bring them back into the fold when we spot them. Usually families where all the kids have uncanny athletic ability. Unfortunately, sometimes we can’t get to them soon enough.”

“Do the demons get them?”

“Sometimes, but sometimes it’s fame.”

“Fame?” Now that’s an enemy I wouldn’t mind catching me.

“Yeah, like Serena and Venus Williams,” Chi says. “We’re pretty sure they’re Templars.”

“Or Peyton and Eli Manning,” adds Uri and Chi nods.

“Their profiles are way too high to bring them in now.” Chi shakes his head in regret. Somehow I doubt the superstar millionaires are as disappointed not to have traded their lives for a short, violent one accompanied by a vow of poverty.

“Are Templars ever Beacons?” I ask.

Chi thinks about it then shakes his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard of.”

“In any case,” good ol’ Jo, keeping us on track, “on our thirteenth birthday, or when they are otherwise brought in, we undergo a ceremony when we come into the Inheritance and get all our super abilities. Or in Emma’s case, don’t.”

“So I won’t be expected to have any super abilities?”

“Nope. Maybe just a little extra athleticism.” Chi winks. “We’ll make sure no one asks you to play a sport.”

This seems like the perfect opportunity to wrest more prudent information on my natural enemies. “So what kind of special abilities do Templars get during the ceremony?”

Chi and Uri both open their mouths to answer but Jo cuts them off, her sharp eyes on my face. “It doesn’t matter, you don’t have any.”

Blast. It’s becoming quite clear I’ll have to lose my darling cuz in order to get more information. I only have a week and it’d take longer than that to get her to trust me. I wonder if she traded her leg for extra brains.

Fortunately, the boys spill information like I spill blood. Unfortunately, I don’t think I will have to merge our two hobbies; I just need to separate her from the rest of us.

They spend the rest of the time explaining the rather dull specifics of Emma’s background. She’s seventeen (though no one can remember her birthday), she has a brother and a cat (gross to both), yadda yadda, snore, who cares.

Finally the clock rolls around to 9.15 and it’s time to leave the dump and head to the school. Chi and Uri lead, while Gimpy brings up the rear. I think she wanted to take the lead – so far she hasn’t struck me as a real good follower – but her leg slows her significantly. So significantly that she drops behind, unnoticed by the boys. She’d choke before she’d ask us to slow down for her and pretty soon she’s out of sight.

Hehe
.

We snake between trailers at a half-run, keeping bent below window height. The sun’s fully up now, but it’s still cold at this altitude and our breath comes out in little puffs. We cut left towards the opposite end of the valley from where we entered and straight ahead between the trailers I can now see the big building, which must be the school. I have to slow down to take it all in.

It’s a crumbling brick box four storeys high with sprawling two- and three-storey appendages that shoot off at odd angles. When the extensions were added no one consulted the style of the original building (if “big box” can be considered a style), and the brick doesn’t match. One wing looks as if it was poured from straight cement – or airlifted from the USSR, back when there
was
a USSR. Some wings look closed altogether, dressed with caution tape and boards over the lower windows. The rusting corpse of a swing set leans pathetically out front.

It’s a monster, created by the architect Frankenstein.

Project Enlightenment Charitable School
, a large and largely rotten wooden sign proclaims.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I’m staring, offended at the school’s ugliness, so I don’t notice the wire-mesh enclosure at my feet until I stumble into it. It rattles and clanks at contact – waking the sleeping monster within, a scrawny little ankle-biter with a stumpy snout and wiry grey hair. It goes bonkers, barking like mad and attacking the wire-mesh fence like it wants to rip me to shreds. The feeling is mutual, but this isn’t the time for that.

I look to where Chi and Uri stand twenty feet ahead of me, frozen in indecision, not wanting to run without me. The trailer’s front door bangs open. I’m still behind the trailer with the demented beast, but Uri and Chi are directly in front. They tense to run, but it’s too late.

“Don’t move, I’m armed,” a voice says from the front of the trailer.

Crap, we’re caught.

SIX

Yip, yip, yip, yip, yip.

“Malachi? Uriel? Is that you?” At least that’s what I think the man said. I can barely hear over the stupid barking of the drowned-rat dog.

From where I stand behind the trailer, I can see Chi and Uri, but not the trailer’s owner, who’s at his front door. Chi’s stance goes from bent and furtive to hands-behind-the-back angelic. A pleasant smile moves across his face and Uri tries to copy it, with less success. What little I can hear of the voice sounds old, so maybe his eyesight is bad enough that Uri looks convincing. It looks like they’re exchanging pleasantries, but even my superb hearing is no match for that damn dog.

With a quick look at Chi and Uri to ensure their attention is elsewhere, I snake out my arm and snap up the little dog. Before I can do anything, Chi shoots a glance in my direction and I’m forced to smile innocently and pat the obnoxious beast on the head. The beast repays my kindness by twisting and snarling and trying to rip my hand from my wrist. Once Chi’s attention turns back to the man, I grab the animal by its scruff and swing him around until his wet black nose is inches from mine. We lock eyes and I watch his widen as I snarl ferociously into its face. The dog pisses itself, but is blessedly silent. I toss him back into his pen. Sometimes bad things need to be reminded they’re not the only ones who can bite. Chi turns at the dog’s sudden silence. My smile is made of spun sugar.

Just to end a few debates, I can conclusively say dogs do have souls. Not deliciously large and filling souls like humans, but they are there. Nutritionally I’d say there’re a dozen dog souls to one human. I suppose I could make the trade and survive, but I won’t. A good dog is worth more than a bad human any day. I can also end another debate: all dogs do not go to Heaven, plenty of them are just as awful as they seem.

Uneven footsteps come from behind me and I turn to see Jo, catching up.

“They get caught?” she whispers. I nod. “Well, at least it’s just Fredrick. He won’t remember five minutes after it happened. Let’s just hope no one else notices.” She looks down at the dog, which is whining and scrabbling in the dirt. She scoots a step or two further away from it.

“Ugh, I hate pets,” she mutters.

Interesting. Most girls love animals. Pets specifically. I look at her curiously.

“Why would anyone pay that much money for a
chore
?” she whispers. Wow, she just might be less human than I am. I, at least, appreciate a good dog. Actually, I even enjoy a bad one – just not in the same way.

We wait while Chi and Uri finish lying to Fredrick and cheerfully wave him goodbye. We hear a door close and the boys beckon us to follow. There are no more unwanted encounters as we make our way to the most dilapidated wing of the school, then around to its back, coming to a stop at a heavily rusted door. Someone slid a piece of cardboard in the doorjamb to keep the lock from catching and it opens easily at Chi’s tug. He peers in then slips through the opening, motioning for us to follow.

And so I take a deep breath and step into the Meda-killing training facility.

Finally.
This is more like it.

The interior is the polar opposite of the cracked and decrepit exterior. The lower windows are boarded because they wouldn’t want anyone to see what’s inside. After all, most high schools don’t include a combat training center. At least not on purpose – some inner-city playgrounds functionally qualify.

The two-storey gymnasium looks like a typical school gym with a shiny but scuffed wood floor, white block walls and folding bleachers, except it’s filled with not-so-typical training implements – punching bags, shooting targets, a fighting cage, a boxing ring – along with the standard mats, hurdles and climbing ropes.

But most intriguing are the walls lined with practice weapons. Wooden blades of all sorts hang from racks that most suburbanites use for garage tools, while a whole collection of real ones fill a metal cage – locked, I’m guessing. Brown clay holy-water globes fill a wire-mesh bin, stored like most gyms would keep kickballs.

We creep across the empty gym into a hallway. I can hear kids tromping and shouting in the distance, but we don’t go that way. Instead we take a sharp left and head down another hallway. We slip into a stairwell and head up to the second floor landing. Instead of going into the hallway, Chi leads us out of a window on to the roof of an abutting wing.

“Cool!” chirps Uri. Apparently the upperclassmen hadn’t filled him in on their escape route.

Chi offers me a muscular forearm and hauls me up after him while Uri boosts me from below. (
So. Freaking. Embarrassing.
) Chi offers similarly to help Jo and gets a cold stare in return. Really, doesn’t he see that coming by now? Even Uri’s smart enough not to offer help. But then, I can’t imagine anyone brave enough to touch Jo’s ass uninvited, good intentions or not. Jo levers herself out, unassisted, then Uri scrambles out and we’re off across the slanted roof. We approach the main box of the building and Chi waves us to wait while he peeks in through a window. When the coast is clear, we climb into a men’s bathroom.