The Eighth Guardian (11 page)

“Tell me how you’d alter the past,” Zeta shouts over the crowd. “Tell me how you’d alter history here, right this second.”

“What?” I yell.

I look at the crowd and try to focus. Their numbers are swelling, and the British soldiers have called for backup. Panic screams in all directions from their eyes. This crowd is about to pummel them. One man yells to string them up, and I gasp. This is not at all how I remember the Boston Massacre from my history textbooks. Where are the soldiers firing on helpless, unarmed civilians? These colonists are a mob, and this is mob mentality. There’s no stopping this.

“I can’t!” I shout to Zeta. “There are too many people!”

A light-skinned black man bumps into me as he rushes to the front of the crowd. He looks back for a split second, as if he’s sorry, but then turns and runs toward a white man standing in the center shouting the loudest. The white man seems to be a leader of the group. He’s shouting cries, which the crowd echoes.

“That’s Crispus Attucks,” Zeta says, pointing to the black man. “And that”—he points to the white man leading the crowd—“is the rope maker Samuel Gray. Both of these men are going to die today. Do you want to know who else?”

My mouth falls open as I watch two of the soldiers shout at the men to back up and keep order. One man throws a stick that hits a soldier straight in the jaw, and the crowd cheers at the crunch.

Zeta grabs my arm and points to two boys pushing their way to the front of the crowd. “James Caldwell and Samuel Maverick. Victims three and four.”

One of the boys turns to the other. “Is there a fire?” he shouts. “We have to help!”

He doesn’t know. Neither of them does. They’re about my age. Sixteen. Seventeen at most. They shouldn’t die like this. I try to break away from Zeta to run to them, to try to pull them back, pull all of them back, but Zeta holds on to me tight.

“There’s number five.” He points to a man standing on the edge. “Patrick Carr.”

I stop breathing when I look at Patrick Carr. He knows what’s about to happen. It’s written all over his face. But that’s not what gets me. It’s the young boy standing next to him. Patrick Carr is a father.

“Go home,” he says to his son.

“But—” the boy says.

“Now. You go home now.”

His son turns and runs away, as fast as his little legs will carry him.

The crowd throws more sticks. Rocks. Whatever they can find. A big, burly man launches toward a soldier. “You sons of bitches to fire! You can’t kill us all! Fire! Why don’t you fire? You dare not fire!” he shouts. I gasp.

“And there’s who we’re helping.” Zeta points to a man across the crowd. “Christopher Monk. He is going to be shot today but will not die for nearly ten years, during which time the city of Boston will pay an exorbitant sum to see to his care. We’re going to ensure the money gets put to a better use.”

I barely notice the guy Zeta’s pointing at, a guy about my age holding something that looks like a small baseball bat and shouting at the soldiers. I’m still staring at Patrick Carr. The crowd swells forward toward the soldiers.

“When I give you the signal, you are to run to Monk and pull him to the ground,” Zeta yells over the roar of the crowd.

A shot rings out, and I duck my head, then look toward the soldiers. One of them has his rifle raised in the air.

“What?” I yell to Zeta.

“No!” Samuel Gray shouts in the middle of the crowd. “God damn you, don’t fire!”

But it’s too late. Shots ring out, and the crowd screams as Samuel Gray falls. I squat down, but Zeta jerks me back up. “Hang on! Almost!”

I can’t think. Men zip this way and that, ducking their heads and screaming. Soldiers are still firing. Patrick Carr waves to someone across the street and motions the person away, then steps out to cross.

No! He can’t! His little boy is going to have to grow up without a father. I know what that’s like. And I can’t let him feel that pain. I twist away from Zeta and run just as the crowd reaches us.

“Iris!” Zeta shouts. “Don’t do anything!”

I block him out. I head right toward Patrick Carr. I’ll take him down. I’ll tackle him to the ground, and then he’ll miss the bullet that was meant for him. He’s close. And my eye flashes to a glint of red a few feet away. A soldier takes aim at Carr. I scream and rear back to launch myself forward.

But then I’m on the ground as a shot rings out. A few feet away, Patrick Carr goes down, and only then does he make a sound. His mouth opens, and an anguished moan bursts from his lips. I scream, too, as Zeta pins my arms to the ground, not letting me move. Blood seeps out of Carr’s hip, and I cry. I don’t care who sees me. I cry. I think of my dad, dying somewhere, and now I will forever have the image of a fatal rifle shot to the side entrenched in my mind. This will be how my dad dies in my dreams.

Zeta yanks me up. Carr writhes on the ground, and I kick at Zeta. I have to help Carr. Maybe if I can stop the bleeding, he’ll live. But Zeta pulls me away, down the street. We step over a bloody, still Christopher Monk on the ground and round a corner, away from the crowd. It’s only then that Zeta drops his hands and pushes me backward. I trip over my feet.

“Godammit, what the hell is the matter with you?” he roars. “What were you thinking?”

The tears are still falling down my face. “I was saving him! I was enhancing the past to save him.”

Zeta’s eyebrows shoot up. “Enhancing? You think that’s what I mean when I say enhancing? Do you have any idea what you could have done? Patrick Carr was not the mission.”

“I could have given his little boy a father to watch him grow up!”

Zeta’s bright-blue eyes grow wide as the moon and fire erupt behind them. “Whatever happened to you in the past is in the past.
This
is your job now, and you do not let emotion take over. Let me tell you a little something about Patrick Carr. He’s going to die nine days from now—a slow, painful, agonizing death—but he single-handedly is going to change the course of American history. What did you see back there?”

“I saw a bunch of people die,” I say as the realization sinks in. I saw people die.
Die
. In front of me. It’s a first. I’ve seen photos of dead bodies and have watched plenty of violent movies, but I’ve never seen the real thing. It’s awful. This whole scene is awful. No amount of training could’ve prepared me for the screams of anguish, the fallen bodies, the finality of death lingering in their open eyes.

“Why did they die?” he asks me.

Do I tell the truth? What I really think? I have to.

“Because they provoked the British soldiers, and the soldiers shot at them in self-defense.”

Zeta nods. “A little different from the history they taught you in school, right? And the truth could be buried forever if not for the heroics of Patrick Carr. He’s going to out the truth on his deathbed. He’s going to tell his doctor that the soldiers were greatly abused by the crowd, that the soldiers would have been hurt or killed had they not fired. He’s going to confirm that it was self-defense. And because of the bravery and honesty of Patrick Carr, those soldiers are going to be acquitted at trial.

“Had Carr not been honest, those soldiers would have been martyred, the British would have retaliated, and the American Revolution could have started five years before we were ready to fight it. We could have lost the Revolution had you tackled Patrick Carr to the ground like you were about to.”

Zeta pauses, and I let his words sink in. America could have lost its fight for independence because of me. Because of
me.

“Enhancement, not alteration,” he repeats. “You were about to alter history in a pretty big way.”

“I don’t understand what the difference is,” I say.

“Clearly.”

I bristle. And I can’t help but feel this isn’t my fault completely. “Well, maybe you should have explained it a little better before you just plunked me down in the middle of the Boston Massacre.”

I probably shouldn’t have said that. No, I
definitely
shouldn’t have said that. Zeta’s eyes narrow, and he stands up really tall. Yep, he has military training. He looks as if he wants to break me, and I don’t doubt for a second that he could.

“Or maybe,” he says in a quiet, dangerous voice, “you should learn to exercise better impulse control. You’re now the seventh recruit I’ve trained, and not one has had a single problem obeying orders in the field. Not one. But if you want to do this the old-fashioned way, we can. You won’t learn in the field. You can learn in the library. You can write me so many essays on the difference between altering and enhancing that your hand will want to fall off. You’ll never gain access to more of our secrets, and you probably won’t survive this probationary period. Is that what you want?”

My stomach sinks. I’m better than this; I know I am.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Save it. We’re going back.” He turns and starts walking toward Beacon Hill. Well, the empty tract of land that will one day become Beacon Hill, I guess.

Zeta doesn’t say a word to me. He watches me press the knob that automatically sets the watch to the present—as if he thinks I could screw up something that simple—and doesn’t speak as he pulls out a special key that unlocks a hidden door in the side of Hancock Manor. The only communication I get is when he jerks his head toward our broom closet, indicating that I should go first.

Alpha is waiting for us upstairs when we get back.

“How did it go?” His smile is wide.

I bite my lower lip as Zeta saunters up next to me, shaking his head. “How would you like it if we were still under British rule? Because that’s what your star recruit here almost did.” There’s sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Oh, and we failed with Monk.”

Alpha’s face gets very still.

“I’m not taking her out into the field again until she can prove she understands the difference between enhancing and altering and demonstrates a better sense of self-control.”

Zeta whips off his wig and stalks toward the stairs, leaving me alone with Alpha in the living room. Alpha doesn’t move for a few seconds. When he finally does, he takes out his old Moleskine notebook from his inside jacket pocket and makes a note with a heavy sigh. Then he tucks the notebook back inside and turns to me.

“So, all in all, not such a great first day?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s, like, my tenth apology of the morning.

Alpha looks at me. There’s a flash of anger in his eyes, but then something changes as he stares at me. He softens, and I’m confused.

“Eh, you win some, you lose some.” But he winces when he says it.

I’ve failed. I know I’ve failed. I feel like I’ve disappointed Alpha, and it dawns on me that I feel guilty. Guilty. Like I should feel bad for letting Alpha down. The man who ripped me away from Peel as a junior. Ripped me from Abe.

I do feel bad. Why is that?

His lips press into a grim line. “Do better tomorrow.” And then he leaves.

But his implication hangs there.
Do better tomorrow
, because there might not be another chance after that.

The next morning there’s a note slid under my door. It’s from Zeta. He wants me to write an essay on any historical event of my choosing. I have to explain the difference between enhancing and altering, then bring the essay to his office when I’m done.

Great. An essay.

I ball up the note, whip around, and send it sailing through the air. It bounces off the back wall and lands on the bed. Essays are not going to help me gain clearance. I’m angry. Partly at myself, but mostly at Zeta. No organization sends its operatives on a mission without a thorough briefing beforehand. Learning in the field can get you killed. Everyone knows that. Well, everyone except Zeta, I guess.

I decide to skip breakfast so I don’t have to face Zeta or the rest of them. I bet Yellow’s heard about my failure, and I can’t trust myself not to hurl a fork at her when she smirks at me. Instead, I take a nice, long shower and let the hot water rain down on me. I wish it would wash all of this away. I wish for a second I could step out of the shower and into my old dorm room at Peel, that I could throw on my uniform and dash across the quad to the dining hall, that I could slide in next to Abe and he’d kiss me on the cheek. Like normal. Like how it used to be. Like how it never will be again.

If I’m going to be stuck in the library all day, I’m dressing for comfort. The corset and eighteenth-century dress still lie in a crumpled heap in the bottom of my closet. I opt for a pair of black, stretchy pants and Abe’s old sweatshirt. Traces of his cologne linger on the neckline, and I inhale as I slip it over my head. My fingers grasp the neck, and I close my eyes.

I remember the last time he wore this sweatshirt. We were on our way back from a brutal TRX session at the Peel gym. I shivered in the night air, and Abe took off the sweatshirt and tossed it to me without hesitation, without asking. I never got around to giving it back.

I miss him. Is he really planning to wait for me, like he promised? He’s going to be waiting a long time, because I’m never getting out of Annum Guard.

He has to move on.