Inquest (8 page)

“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.”