The Guardian Lineage

 

by Seth Z. Herman

Published by Astraea Press

www.astraeapress.com

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

 

THE GUARDIAN LINEAGE

Copyright © 2014 SETH Z. HERMAN

ISBN 978-1-62135-374-4

Cover Art Designed by CORA DESIGNS

 

To Mrs. Iris Schachter, who always believed in me.

 

 

First of all, to God, without Whom nothing is possible.

To Brittany Booker, the most incredible agent in the world, who believed in me when few others would. Her enthusiasm for TGL was nothing short of amazing, as was her tireless hard work. I owe you everything.

To Stephanie Taylor, who picked up TGL with similar gusto and excitement. I am so honored to be a part of a press that stands for such honorable values.

To everyone at Astraea Press who put in hours of their own time to make sure TGL was as awesome as possible. To Katie Campbell, Amanda Swadley, and Beth Almeida for the edits, to Kelly Martin for the pub stuff, and everyone else who worked on the manuscript – you have my never-ending gratitude.

To Cora, who did the unbelievable cover – even after I asked for revision after revision (and then decided to use the first rendition!), you worked tirelessly to make sure I was happy with it. Thank you so very much.

To my parents, who did so much for me that an entire bookshelf could not contain all the stories of their efforts… those humdrum two words that we always use (“thank you”) are so woefully short of what should truly be said. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

To my amazing wife, Andrea, who spared me all the eye-rolls when I said, “Just a few more minutes of edits,” at one in the morning. And who encouraged me to keep going, even after years of rejections and edits and more rejections and more edits. You are my everything.

To Mrs. Iris Schachter, my eighth-grade English teacher, who encouraged my writing for many years… and kept on encouraging me, even after I turned in some of my worst (read: earliest) work. Thank you, for always believing in me, and for the much-needed self-esteem boost, even when my writing was borderline pathetic. To Mr. Rosenbaum and Mr. Horowitz, my high-school English teachers, whose enthusiasm for Shakespeare and Chaucer and Beowulf made me love stories with heart, passion, and intrigue. You showed me an excitement for storytelling that I remember to this day.

To the greatest beta-readers in the world, Beth Hull and Seven Blue, who held my hand as I matured as a writer, letting me know what worked and what didn't, always knowing exactly what to say. You guys are the best.

To Sam Farkas, intern extraordinaire, whose initial enthusiasm for the novel really helped get the ball rolling. I owe you big time :)

To my siblings, Ari and Michal, who read TGL and told me bluntly what was great and what was stupid – thanks guys. I always think, “Would Ari and Michal like this?” whenever I'm writing… so even if you didn't know it, thanks for being my target audience. You guys rock.

To everyone else who's ever read TGL, I'm sorry that I can't remember all your names (it has been a
long
time from first draft to publication, that's for sure) – if you find yourself reading this somehow, please email me and remind me that it was you on Critters.org who read it and made comments. I'd love to return the favor someday.

And finally to you, my reader – thank you for your time, your energy, your emotions. I hope reading TGL improved your life in some way, even if it meant just keeping you distracted and entertained for a few hours. Please email me, I'd love to hear from you.

 

 

Mike Prior hated it when his girlfriend kicked his butt.

The wind left his lungs as a sharp kick nailed him in the chest. He stumbled backwards, surprised, his bare feet grasping for footing on the carpet. Another roundhouse came, this time aimed at his temple. Mike ducked underneath it. He slipped a hand out of his karategi-sleeve and grabbed Laura's arm to pin her down, but she was too quick. In one fluid motion, she grasped his arm and flipped him onto his back.

Mike rolled left and handsprang to his feet. Cheering filled his ears. Laura took a shot at his torso, but he knocked it aside and countered with a similar jab. Then, after a few seconds of punch-counterpunch, Mike landed a shot on Laura's stomach. She lurched forward, eyes squinted and mouth open in a stunned expression of pain.

He hesitated. This was just something she'd goaded him into, so the kids could see some real—

Just like that, he was on the floor. Laura slipped a foot inside Mike's leg and pushed him backwards, landing Mike right on his back. She crouched down and held a fist-blade at his neck.

“Yield,” she said, breathing heavily.

Mike swore in his head.
You filthy, cheating, insanely-gorgeous sleazeball…

The crowd erupted into boisterous applause. Mike glanced at the twenty-odd students who'd stuck around the dojo to watch the fight, all of them clapping and gesturing wildly.

He smirked. There hadn't been a single eight-year-old pulling for him.

Laura removed her sparring gloves and offered a hand. Mike took it, noticing her sweaty palm, then brushed off his karategi and tightened his green belt. Laura did likewise. The two turned to each other, bowed, then did the same to the kids.

“Okay, everybody,” Laura called with a hint of swagger in her voice. “Same time next week…”

Mike let Laura's wrapup fade into the background as he made for his gym bag, muttering under his breath. He'd
had
her… but no, he had to hesitate like that… he shook his head.
Four in a row!
How could he lose four in a row to her? He was faster, stronger, much better look—okay, not true, but hey, it was close…

“Excuse me, who's in charge here?”

Mike turned to see a middle-aged man peering at him from behind a pointed nose and thin-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a three-piece suit, which must've been brutal in the July heat. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw Laura shoot him a playful grin and slide out of the way.

Are you kidding me, woman?
Mike thought.
I will kill you for this…

Resigned to his fate, Mike turned with hands on his hips, still breathing heavily. “That would be me.”

The guy looked Mike up and down, then raised an eyebrow. “And how old are you?”

“Uh, sorry, Jon Miller's the sensei around here, he'll be back tomorrow.”

“Just answer the question, kid.”

Mike blinked.
Well. S
omebody tied his Brooks Brothers a little too tight
.

“I'm fifteen.”

“I see.” The man's gaze swept the dojo. He looked bored. One of the karate students at the door called for him – Jamison, a sweet kid, if nothing more than a punching bag – but the man didn't acknowledge. “And what's your name?” he said to Mike while still looking backwards.

“Mike Prior. Is there anything you need me to—”

The guy snapped to attention. “Wait, what was that? What did you say your name was?”

“Uh, Michael Prior. Do I—”

“No, not at all,” the man said quickly, nodding and staring at Mike like he was a specimen or something. “Nice bout, kid.” And with that, the man turned and headed for the door, taking his son's hand as he left.

Mike's first thought was,
okay, that was weird.
But then something caught his eye. There was someone staring at him, through the window, from across the parking lot. Some dude in a t-shirt and shorts. Eyes squinted, mouth open, phone to his ear. As if he'd just found something he'd been looking for…

Mike froze.

No, not again…
not here, not now…

He looked back at Laura, a knot in his stomach. He exhaled slowly, like Sensei Jon had taught him.
Chill out, okay, nothing is happening
.
NOTHING IS HAPPENING.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead, then rubbed it on his karategi. Nothing was happening. Right, okay. And the guys were supposed to come over later for video games, ice cream, and as many nachos as they could consume. Mike looked at the clock on the wall. They might even be there already, if Mom let them in. That would help him relax… besides, if he was still freaking out after that, well, at least he would know he needed to see a psych—

“Um… you okay?”

Mike turned to see Laura staring at him with that adorable scrunched-up face of hers.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

Laura held up a keyring, then grinned. “Loser locks up.”

Mike took the keys absentmindedly.
Keys. Loser locks up. Right.
He looked back at the windowpane, but the guy was gone.

Nothing is happening. Okay?

Mike took Laura's hand when he finally caught up to her. She was the only girl he'd gone out with since moving to Queens a year ago, which suited him just fine – Laura Stetson was by far the coolest girl he'd ever met. And the prettiest, too, but that was just a minor detail. He shaded his eyes. The sun was going down, level to his line of sight, but the humidity was still out of control. It felt like he had a faucet inside his body, the way he was gushing sweat.

“You know, you could let me win once in a while,” Mike said as he flicked a rock out of his sandals.

“Nah, that wouldn't be any fun.”

“Uh huh,” Mike mumbled. He sidestepped some guy who was casually ignoring his dog as it deposited a gift on the sidewalk. Classic Forest Hills. The only place in the world that smelled like car fumes and dog feces rolled into a single, gratifying cologne. Eau de Crap, it could be called.

“You okay, by the way?” Mike asked when he was safely out of the way of the poo. “I hit you pretty solid back there.”

“Yeah, totally fine.” Laura pushed her matted auburn hair out of her face. “You hesitate too much, you know. Gonna lose you a lot of tournaments.”

“Yeah, well—”

Out of nowhere, Mike jabbed at Laura's side, but she jumped back and grabbed his wrist. Mike dropped his gym bag and wrenched his arm free. Laura came back at him, but Mike feigned left and went right, causing Laura to falter. Sensing his opportunity, Mike grabbed Laura's waist and drove her back, until he pressed her against a big oak tree.

“Is
that
going to lose me a lot of tournaments?”

Laura squirmed. “Come on, Mike, not in public.”

Mike smirked. Almost two months into their relationship, he had gotten used to her “not in public” routine. Even liked it a little. After all, it meant she was only his, and no one else's.

But he still had to mess with her about it.

“You're such a prude,” he said with a huge grin on his face.

“Yup, and you love me for it.”

There it was, that word again. Third time, by Mike's count. Mike ignored it, of course, but it still felt weird. It was like stealing a base when you're up ten runs – it just wasn't necessary. What was it with girls and that stuff? The last girl he'd gone out with, in Omaha, she'd busted it out like two weeks in. Of course, she'd dumped him a week later, which made Mike think the word “love” was just a bit overused these days.

“Well…” Lightning quick, Mike swooped in and pecked her on the lips.

“Hey!”

Without acknowledging the protest, Mike released her and spun out, offering his hand as if he was doing ballet. Laura glowered, but took it anyway, and the two walked hand-in-hand towards the intersection. Mike felt Laura's thumb tickle his palm, and he smiled to himself. Good, she wasn't mad—

A foghorn shattered Mike's world. Mike jumped out of his skin as a yellow cab tore past them, its driver screaming something out the window.

Laura, who had one foot in the street, returned fire.

“Crazy lunatic, where'd you get your license?” she yelled, raising a fist as the taxi disappeared. “Who taught you to drive, your grandmother? Stop texting your babysitter!
Try looking when you're driving!
”

Mike glanced at the traffic light again.

They had a don't-walk sign.

He stifled a laugh, then looked both ways as they crossed. He was much mellower about these things, probably a result of his time spent down south. Four months in Dallas, six in Atlanta, nine in Omaha… Laura, on the other hand, was a purebred New Yorker. Jaywalking was in her blood.

When they arrived at Laura's house, Mike made sure to do the tickle-her-palm thing as she left. It was a little childish, to be honest – it almost felt like he was in fifth grade or something – but it was Laura's thing, and it was cute. Mike waved at Laura's mom as she opened the door, then headed for home.

Only after she was gone did he realize how much he needed her. His nerves were still shot, which bugged the hell out of him. Sure, in the past, he'd been dragged out of bowling alleys, movie theaters, even school buildings – but that was his mother's obsession, not his. Always someone coming to get them. Gotta get out of here. Come on, let's go, no calling your friends, there's no time for that…

And with every attack of paranoia, there would be an immediate change of address.

Mike ground his teeth. Like there was ever any danger. What was his mom worried about, anyway? Okay fine, the Baltimore thing had been pretty nuts, the limo had had a guy riding shotgun – literally – shooting at them with a sawed off—

No. He was doing it again. Freaking out. Over nothing. Mike squeezed the handle of his gym bag just a little as he stepped over a gnarled tree root. Everything would be fine, and—

“Michael Prior?”

Mike snapped out of his daze and squinted into the sun. His breath caught. It was Jamison's father,
and
the guy from across the street. They both wore sweatsuits now, and matching sunglasses, as if they belonged to the church running team or something.

Mike dropped his gym bag and balled his hands into fists.

The guy reached into his sweatshirt pocket. Mike cringed, but it wasn't a weapon. It was a police badge that looked like it belonged to a Halloween costume. Which wasn't much better.

“We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mister Prior. If you don't mind.”

Mike licked his lips. The guy had to realize he knew karate, right? Which probably meant he had a weapon… a knife, or worse, a gun…

The sound of car doors slamming made Mike turn around. Five more joggers climbed out of a parked taxicab and strode in their direction.

Ohmigod, ohmigod… think, Mike, think…

All of a sudden, Mike was grabbed from behind. He reacted as if it was second nature, judo-flipping his assailant over his back and onto the concrete. But the remaining men jumped him. One of the sweatsuits applied a full nelson. Mike tried to break out, but the guy who held him was too strong. The sun burned his skin, the pressure on his neck was incredible… Jamison's father pulled something metal out of his pocket, something that glinted in the sunlight—

Then, somehow, one of the sweatsuits flew sideways, as if an invisible hook had jerked him away. The assailants jumped back, their heads swiveling. The full nelson was released and Mike was thrown to the ground. His face slammed against the exposed tree root, and he tasted blood. Mike wiped his mouth and looked up to see some guy wearing a leather outfit, complete with a totally unnecessary trench coat, fending off his attackers. The guy took out one sweatsuit, then two… he was unbelievable, twirling kyus as fast as Sensei Jon, probably even faster.

Mike was so awestruck that it took him a second to realize,
I should probably get out of here
.

He grabbed his gym bag, put his head down, and ran. Hard. He peeled around the corner and headed for–

No, not home. That was stupid, someone might follow him.

He slammed on the brakes and made a right, heading for Queens Boulevard. The more people, the better. He ran until he came to a huge intersection.

Queens and Continental. Okay, okay… think, Mike, think!

Mike slid up against the wall of the Duane Reade. They couldn't jump him here, not with so many people around. Could they? His insides churned like that fruit puree he'd thrown in the blender for his mom that morning. He thought about calling the police, but what exactly was he supposed to tell them?
Yeah, see, I was attacked by seven guys in sweatsuits, and then this guy from The Matrix showed up and saved me…
Sure, whatever. On the other hand, if someone was after him, the police could be worth talking to.

Mike punched 911 into his cell phone. But he stopped before hitting the green dial key. The last thing he wanted was for his mother to find out something had happened. She would pack them up right away, dragging them off to another city without warning, no questions asked, making him leave Laura behind…

But if he was being followed, then he really needed help, or at least an escort home…

Aw, he could take care of himself, couldn't he?

Not one-on-seven…

But that guy had showed up…

Yeah, but if he hadn't, he'd be dead meat… literally…

But what about Laura…

Mike scowled.

No
, he thought.
No more running.
Calling the police meant losing her. And Mike was not ready to do that.
Forget this… paranoia.
His
mom's
paranoia. There was no way this was happening again.

Mike stuffed his phone into his bag, checked to make sure he had the light, and started running towards the sanctuary of his fifth-story apartment.