Inquest (7 page)

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.”