The Guardian Lineage (12 page)

“Maybe,” the Headmage allowed. “But not today. You are not nearly strong enough, nor controlled enough. Magistrate Dubois would have no trouble with you at all.”

“Who was she?” Stockton said.

“Huh?”

“The Slayer you let go.”

At first Mike didn't understand. Then he realized Stockton was talking about Laura.

Mike growled. As if he was the one who had done the “letting go.” Besides, what did Stockton care, anyway?

“Uh, we used to be friendly. In Queens, before I came here.”

Stockton's eyes narrowed. “How friendly?”

Mike threw up his hands. “She was my girlfriend, all right?
All right
? She had a dog named Lazy. Her room was on the top floor, second from the left, filled with pink Hello Kitty pillows and enormous karate trophies. We went out for two months, the best two months of my life! Want to know how far we went? Barely second base, because she's a bit of a prude, but that's probably farther than
you've
ever gotten!” Mike was breathing so hard, he thought he'd give himself asthma or something. “Are you happy now? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”

Stockton said nothing. He had a slightly bemused smile on his face, indicating that he was, in fact, quite happy.

“Michael,” the Headmage said. “I know you want to go rescue your mother. But I believe the Magistrate, even though I despise him. He gains nothing by killing your mother. He will probably hold on to her – humiliate her, maybe – but he will not kill her. Trust me when I say that, I have known him long enough. At least that much you can do for me?”

Mike inhaled slowly. He so wanted to hunt down that Dubois and put an electric charge down his throat… but even he realized he had almost no chance of doing that by himself. At least not yet. He felt so guilty about putting his mother in this position… but how could he have acted differently? His mom wouldn't have wanted him to
kill
Laura – that was insane! What else could he have done?

“Make no mistake about it, everything we do – each and every one of us – has real ramifications. Every move we make, every word we utter, has the potential to destroy us. We have succeeded in keeping the fight as far away from Windham as we can, but if this episode blows up in our face… do you understand?”

Mike started to say
no, I don't get—
but then he stopped himself.

A jolt went up his spine.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

The entire time, he had wondered what the fuss was about. When Garzan had first told him about the Guardians, when he'd seen the Gargoyles, watched them rout the Brethren on Windham's own soil… he had wondered what the big deal was. Yes, Mrs. Jorisch had been killed, and that was terrible… but were they really threatened? Mike had just assumed there were other Guardians to fight on different fronts. The Gargoyles could crush the vampires, while the Guardians could take out the Brethren. Even without the Slayers' help.

Except for one small detail.

“We're fighting them all by ourselves,” Mike whispered.

His fears doubled as he watched Garzan nod ever so slightly.

So
that
was the deal. It wasn't all the Guardians and Gargoyles in the world versus the Vampires and Brethren… it was Windham versus everyone else, which possibly included
other Guardians
…

“Now you understand the urgency,” Stockton said.

Mike didn't move for a minute, a mixture of shock and nervousness and downright fear taking hold of his body.

“How long do I need? Until I can challenge him?”

“Years,” Garzan said abruptly. “Do not focus on DuBois. Keep your focus on the Brethren.”

“He is
torturing
my mother, and you want me to
forget
about it?”

“No, Michael. But if you let it consume you, it will blind you to the true purpose of your life.”

“One week.” Mike slammed a fist on Garzan's desk. Cracks of heat spread out on the wood underneath his hand, but he didn't care. “That's it. If I'm not hugging my mom by this time next week, I'm
out
of here, with whoever'll come with me.” Mike pointed an accusing finger at the Headmage. “That's the least you can do for not bringing her to Windham.”

With that, Mike stormed out of the room, his hands still smoking.

 

***

 

As soon as Mike left the room, Garzan repaired the wood on his desk. “There goes the most volatile weapon we have had in the last two centuries.”

“Don't give me that.” Stockton snorted. “It was time.”

“That may be,” Garzan allowed. “But if Dementae is truly looking to use Michael as a weapon, we just prepped him for launch.”

Stockton was silent for a moment. “He's back, then.”

“Absolutely.”

“But how?”

Garzan told him.

“How do you know?”

“Dementae is not the only one with spies, my friend.”

Stockton's eyes widened. “You didn't tell me.”

“The less people who know, the better.”

“You can't possibly—”

“Of course not, Seth. But who knows how good Dementae's spy is? Or spies, for that matter. If we haven't caught them yet, who's to say they can't listen in on your thoughts when your guard is lowered?”

“My guard is
always
up, Headmage.”

“Yes, I know.” Garzan sighed, and rubbed his forehead. He didn't say anything for a few moments. Then he said reluctantly, “Let him fight her. Tomorrow.”

“
Tomorrow
?”

“We have no choice, Magus.”

“With all due respect, Headmage, I thought—”

“That we wanted him to hone his skills, yes. But I'm afraid we don't have time for that anymore.” Garzan breathed deep.

“Headmage, you know how I feel about students getting hurt, but she could kill—”

“We have no
choice
, Magus!” Garzan's eyes were ablaze. “What happens if Dementae gets his hands on him, tomorrow, or the next day? The kid won't last a
minute
under Dementae's tortures! He needs to experience pain, so he can withstand whatever Dementae might throw at him.”

Stockton worked his jaw.

“You don't like it,” Garzan said.

“Of course I don't like it.”

“Finally warming up to him?”

“Let's not get too carried away,” Stockton muttered. He paced back and forth, then grunted. “In Sparring class?”

Garzan nodded. “In Sparring class.”

“So be it.”

 

 

Mike figured this was how a volcano felt, right before it buried a town in burning lava.

He stormed down the hallway, barely able to think straight. The past twenty-four hours had raised his stress level to heights he never thought possible. The excitement of possibly seeing Laura, the battle in Central Park... their subsequent “breakup”… Garzan's whole background story with the Slayers, and the complications with Laura being one of them… the revelation that Windham's Guardians were alone in this fight, with no one to turn to for help…

And, finally, his mom's abduction and torture.

If Mike had his way, he would warp over to DuBois's castle and beat the living hell out of the man. But he couldn't teleport, and Garzan claimed he couldn't beat the guy in a fight. So, considering the circumstances, he might've settled for blowing up a wing of the mansion, or a two-hour Sparring session where all his adversaries were either dead or incapacited—

Wow. Killing other students? Maybe I am pretty evil. Who knew?

Mike pounded up the marble staircase, marvelling at his own negative creativity. He knew where he was headed; that idea had formed the moment he'd left Garzan's office. The Headmage had told him not to tell anyone, but Garzan's instructions be damned if a piece of missing information might cost a Guardian his life.

Besides, he needed to burn off some steam. And maybe hatch a plan how to free his mom of DuBois's clutches.

He climbed the stairs leading to the dorm. Instead of stopping at the third floor he made his way up to the fourth, then poked his head into the first room on the right.

“Which room is Zucker's?” he said a little more forcefully than he intended.

A bare-chested blond-haired kid was sitting crosslegged on his bed, reading a novel or something. He jumped, and dropped the book he was holding.

“Uh, four down on the left, 409.”

“Thanks,” Mike said abruptly, and headed down the corridor. When he came to the correct door, he knocked loudly, which was received with a surprised, “Uh, come in?” Mike opened the door to see Zachariah sitting on his bed looking at a magazine. The look on his face said he wasn't used to receiving guests.

Mike had planned on speaking with Zachariah outside the Manor, out of earshot, but that seemed to be unnecessary. The other bed in the room was bare, with no sheets or pillows whatsoever. The second closet was empty, as well. The walls were covered in posters of different bands. Zachariah's taste apparently ranged from Grateful Dead to Guns N' Roses. And was that… cigarette smoke? Was that even allowed?

“What are you doing here?” Zachariah said, his eyebrows slanted.

“Uh, where's the other guy?” As soon as the words left Mike's mouth he wished he could have them back.

“Where you should be,” Zachariah snapped. “Out of my room.”

Mike didn't miss a beat. “But then you wouldn't hear how right you are.”

Zachariah closed his magazine and tossed it on the floor. “What?”

“About there being different rules here.”

Zachariah sat up straighter. “How so?”

Mike prayed his instincts were right about this. The dream with his mother's spy-warning flashed through his mind. So did Stockton's words, from Garzan's office a few nights back.
Perhaps the spy we've been looking for.

But for some reason, Mike was pretty sure Zachariah wasn't it. It just didn't seem right – what spy would go around pissing people off all the time?

Mike told Zachariah about his meeting: How Guardians and Slayers were mortal enemies, even though they fought a common adversary. How disgraced and alone their clan really was. And how the Headmage was afraid they'd be massacred if the other clans found out what Mike and Zachariah had done.

“And, because I didn't kill my girl—uh,
ex
-girlfriend…” Mike took a deep breath. “My mom was kidnapped. She's being tortured and held by some French prick, in a Guardian stronghold somewhere.”

Zachariah's eyes bugged out. “A
Guardian
stronghold?”

Mike nodded, his emotions suddenly taking hold of him. He bit his cheek. He couldn't cry here, in front of his worst—well, not his
worst
enemy, that was DuBois, or the Brethren… oh, whatever…

For a minute, Zachariah said nothing. He stared at the floor, legs dangling, toes playing with one of his flip-flops. “Can I ask you something?”

Mike inhaled. “Uh, sure.”
At least I didn't just break down in front of this guy. I'd be the laughingstock of the school.

“Because I've got to ask somebody in this place or I'll go nuts. You seem to be one of the less clueless guys here, however pathetic that may be.”

Mike considered several comebacks, most revolving around how he'd kicked Zachariah's butt in their one Sparring session, but decided against all of them. He was more curious than anything at the moment.

“Does it seem to you that we got dropped in the middle of a war without anyone telling us, without asking whether we'd like to be included or not?”

Mike nodded. “Um, duh.”
Especially now that it's us versus the world.

“I mean, my bro's in the US army, so at least when he's thrown into some crazy stuff in Afghanistan, they can say, hey, you signed up for this. Don't get me wrong, that's not any consolation if things go to hell. But here… it's like we just got drafted, you know, and nobody told us anything until we were out there.” Zachariah pulled his hairy legs onto the bed.

“Totally agree with you, man,” Mike said, even though his brain was muttering,
is this really the second heart-to-heart you've had with Zachariah in the past twenty-four hours?

Then Mike noticed a small picture taped to the wall, just by Zachariah's bed, cut with a scissor to outline a female shape. He squinted to get a better look. It was Annabella, at the beach, hands spread up to the sky as if showing off the new yellow dress she was wearing. She had a huge grin on her face.

Mike nodded at the picture. “How long've you known her?”

Zachariah looked at the small cut-out. He smiled. It occurred to Mike that it was the first time he'd ever seen the guy do that.

“Girl next door. Literally. The only one in the world who understands me.” Zachariah brushed Annabella's picture with a thumb.

Just then, the door flew open. Mike whirled to see Aaron Caulderon standing in the doorway. He had a reptilian look to him; the contacts in his eyes were green and yellow.

Aaron looked from Mike to Zachariah, back and forth, as if unable to process the information. His eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

“Uh, you two hanging out?”

“Mike's mom was kidnapped,” Zachariah growled. “He was here for a bit of therapy.”

“What?” Aaron said. “How? By who? Who told you?”

“Garzan,” Mike said, not totally loving the therapy comment. He gave Aaron a quick rundown about what happened in Central Park. “Some French guy took her, because I didn't kill Laura.”

Aaron leaned in with his yellow eye. “Which French guy?”

“DuBooty or something,” Zachariah said.

“DuBois?” Aaron offered.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “How'd you know that?”

“He's the head of the Grey Talon clan, in France.” Aaron chuckled. “I forgot you don't know this stuff.” He rubbed his neck. “What a scumbag, I can't believe he'd kidnap another Guardian. Is she okay?”

“She's alive, if that counts,” Mike growled. He was done talking about his mother; all it did was make him want to blow stuff up. Which, if he wasn't careful, might actually happen. “So… what's up?”

Aaron shook his head as if to wipe away the cobwebs. “Right. We've been in this place almost a week, and we haven't raided the girls yet.” He grinned. “That changes
now
.”