The Guardian Lineage (2 page)

 

 

Miraculously, nothing happened on the way back. And Mike breathed a sigh of relief when he discovered nobody was actually home, because he looked like he'd taken a beating in the octagon. His face was full of blood, his nose was bruised, and his knee had bled onto his karate pants. Mike chucked his bag in a corner and hurried into the shower. He'd thought about calling Laura, but he didn't want to make her nervous. Besides, they were after him, not her. If that even made any sense.

Mike let the scalding water run over him. His knee burned, but it felt almost… purifying. He'd been mugged, he'd made it out okay, and he was fine. Period, end of story. All he could do now was act normal around his mother, and hopefully this would all go away.

The guys came over around eight, and before he knew it, the pizza was gone, the ice cream had been cleared away, and the chips and dip were scattered around the garbage. Mike's mom was locked in her room, probably reading some sappy love novel, and the most important time of the night had arrived.

Game time.

“OHHHHHHHH!”

The ruckus started about ten minutes in, which was record time, by Mike's estimate. Underneath the TV was a Nintendo – the original one – and Tank Ellsbury, the closest thing Mike had to a best friend in Queens, had just scored the go-ahead touchdown in their ultimate Tecmo Super Bowl tournament.

When the screen froze.

Guys jumped up and down, yelling, cursing, making predictions, screaming at the machine for being a piece of horse dung that wasn't worth the plastic it was made from.

“Doesn't matter, this game's mine,” Tank crowed as Mike went over to blow on the cartridge. Even though this was regular procedure for a game system almost thirty years old, the machine still worked well enough for Mike to keep it around. Besides, the new ones were
way
too expensive.

“Who's next, who's next?” Tank played to the crowd.

“Not a chance, I had two minutes left to score,” Mike muttered as he worked on the cartridge.

“Oh yeah, wanna do something about it?” Tank gathered himself up to full height, drawing raucous encouragement.

The doorbell rang, and one of the guys went over to get it. Mike ignored it, instead focusing on the trash-talking at hand.

“Five bucks you can't come within a touchdown next game,” he said, glaring at Tank with a mock tough-guy look on his face. This set off a chorus of oohs and aahs, highlighted by the Tecmo Super Bowl ditty – the game had come back on.

“Done!” Tank cried.

The crowd responded in approval, with some guys making their own bets, then pleading with Mike and Tank to come through. The kid who'd gotten the door stepped gingerly over the gamepad wires with a big cardboard box, which he set on the dining room table.

“Hey, Paulie, who delivered that package?” Mike said as Tank kicked off.

“I dunno, some guy in a UPS outfit. You want me to open it?”

UPS?
Mike thought.
At ten at night?
“Listen, maybe you better let me—”

Mike didn't get a chance to finish. The package ripped itself open and a large cat-like animal jumped out.

Except it wasn't a cat.

Mike drew back in horror. The creature had a long snout, with small canine fangs. Its fur was half white and half black, and a horrible scar curled around its body, as if it had been cut in half and sewn back together. It had no tail. One eye bulged from its socket, much larger than the other.

And right now, it was snapping at Paulie's neck and cawing like a banshee.

“What is that?” Tank said, flinging the controller against the wall and jumping away from the melee. Some guys yelled, some cursed. Others ran into the den.

Amidst the pandemonium, Mike ran over and punted the cat clear across the room. The animal crashed against the wall and rebounded onto its feet. It glared right at him and made a guttural noise that sounded more like it had come from a ticked-off T-Rex. Petey scrambled out of the way, but Mike stood his ground. He scanned the room for a weapon. Of all the random, inane things that could happen—

Suddenly, Mike's mom burst into the room. “Get into the den, everybody!” Mike felt himself being pushed in the other direction. Before he could react, he was behind a door with all his friends, locked in the guest room by themselves. He tugged on the doorknob, but it wouldn't open.

Mike pressed his ear to the wood, straining to decipher the sounds he heard. The animal screeched, its decibel level higher than any cat Mike had ever met. There was a soft thud, then a louder thud… Mom yelled something Mike didn't understand… behind him somebody started wailing, which prompted a rush of “shut up already!” and other more exotic phrases. There was a whooshing sound, like a giant faucet being turned on… another thud, a human scream… a non-human scream, a curse…

And then, silence.

“Mom!” Mike pounded on the door. He thrust a shoulder into the wood, but it didn't give.

Then the door was wrenched open from the other side. His mom stood there, panting, t-shirt torn, sweatpants ripped open on the left side. Crimson streaked down her leg. Scratches covered her face, and there was green and red paint – or was it blood? – caked in her oily black hair.

Mike stepped slowly into the living room, his mouth agape. The place reeked of smoke. Shards of glass lay scattered around the standing lamp. Another part of the wall was waterlogged, like someone had turned on a fire hose or something. The couch was ripped to shreds, and the two metal folding chairs had been sawed in half. There were scorch marks on the wall, as if it had been sprayed with a flamethrower, and the animal's carcass laid in the corner, unmoving, a green pool of gook spreading on the carpet.

“Michael,” Mom said, wiping blood from her cheek, “We need to talk.”

 

 

“There's something you need to know about your ancestry.”

Mike's gut was so hollow he almost didn't hear his mom speak. Everything about this made him sick. They were seated in the kitchen, their usual talking spot, and Mom had made the standard, hot cocoa. The two mugs were the only ornaments on the paint-chipped table. All Mike's friends had left, most running home without so much as a word. Not that Mike could blame them. He was just as freaked as they were.

Except he knew where this was going.

Anytime something crazy happened – like mini-sabertooth-tiger-tearing-apart-the-living-room crazy – Mom would always try to explain things. Sometimes weird things happen in life, Michael. Things we don't understand. Be careful, especially around people you don't know. Don't trust anybody. Stay away from strangers. And don't hang out with strangely-attractive girls.

As if he'd ever attempt anything crazy like that.

But even worse than the conversation, Mike knew about the aftermath.

He would be leaving Queens.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He'd gone through all the scenarios in his head during the past ten minutes, while everyone was filing out and his mom was boiling the hot water. He couldn't make enough money to rent his own place. Tank might let him crash by him, but for how long… he definitely couldn't stay by Laura, her dad was a tyrant when it came to boyfriends, so that wasn't even on the radar…

And besides – could he really just refuse to go? And leave his mom by herself? Heck, leave
himself
by himself?

Mike fingered the rim of his cracked Donald Duck mug and looked at his mom. She had cleaned herself up a bit, but her hair was still multicolored, and some of the wounds on her cheek were starting to bleed again.

“I haven't told you this because… because I felt it was in your best interest. Please know that.”

“Not in the mood for a speech, Mom,” Mike snapped, a little more sharply than he intended. The moment he said it, he wished he could take it back. His mom was clearly hurt, although Mike wasn't sure how bad. At the very least, the cuts on her face had to sting, and while the blood on her leg had been cleaned off, the gaping hole in her sweatpants indicated she might need stitches.

There was a palpable, tension-filled silence. Which made Mike even more uncomfortable. He thought about saying it, just because he felt bad… but that wouldn't help…

Oh, why not… it's not like things can get any worse…

“I was attacked, by the way. Before the party.”

Mom's eyes widened. “What?”

Mike breathed in deeply.
Remind me why you're doing this again? Oh, yeah, because you're a momma's boy who can't keep any secrets from her. Good luck with that, bro.

“Yeah. On the way back from the dojo, outside Pathmark. A bunch of guys in sweatsuits.”

“And you didn't tell me?”

Mike looked away. “Um, I didn't want you to worry.”

“Michael.” Mom slid a hand across the table. “You know I worry about you anyway.”

Mike felt his mom take his hand, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

“You didn't want to move again,” she said plainly.

Gee,
Mike thought.
How'd you guess?
He nodded, his gaze still fixed on the table. The past year in Queens had been the best of his life. He had made a ton of friends at school, mostly because Tank had taken him under his wing. He had gotten good grades for the first time, even made the baseball team as a backup outfielder. After asking Laura out and getting the summer job at the dojo, Mike was beginning to think Queens was the greatest place on Earth. And now, he was going to have to leave. Just like every other place.

But he didn't want to talk about it, so he changed the subject.

“What was that thing, anyway?”

Mom took a sip of hot cocoa. “A Calebra.”

“A what?”

“A Calebra,” Mom said again. “A Deviled Cat.”

“A Deviled Cat.”

“That's right.”

“And why was it mailed to me?”

Now Mom played with her wedding band. The thing had never left her finger since Dad had died, more than ten years ago.

“Michael, our family comes from a lineage of Guardians, who protect the world from its own evils.”

“Dad was a cop? I thought you said he was—”

“A lawyer, I know.” Mom dabbed a wet compress to the cuts on her cheek, staining the towel in the process. “He wasn't a cop, and he definitely wasn't a lawyer.”

“Then what was—”

There was a sharp knock on the door. Mike jumped, but his mother didn't even move. As if she was expecting it.

Mike put a hand out. “I'll get it.”

That proved to be unnecessary. The door opened by itself, despite the doorbolt. Mike didn't even have time to think
what the hell?
as a man wearing a full-leather outfit, complete with a double-buttoned vest and long trench coat, stepped into the room.

It was the same guy who had saved Mike a few hours earlier.

“I'll need the names of all the kids who were here,” the man said immediately, looking from Mike to his mother and back again.

Mom nodded without looking at the guest. “Uh huh.”

The man surveyed the room for a few moments. “Your package did not contain a deathworm,” he said, just audible enough for Mike to hear.

A deathworm?
Mike thought. Sounded like something from Star Trek, or Star Wars, or Star-whatever-tv-show-ripoff…

“It was a Calebra,” Mom said softly.

The man's head snapped around. The guy studied the damage again, a little more intently this time, then stared at Mom. “And nobody was killed?”

“No.”

The man's jaw worked for a moment. Then he grunted, apparently satisfied. He reached into his overcoat. “This is for the boy.” Out came a wedding-invitation-sized envelope, bound together by fancy white lace.

Mike had noticed his mother's lack of surprise the entire time – how could he not – but what happened next caught him totally off guard. Mom jumped up and knocked the letter to the floor, as if it was on fire. “Get that away from him,” she hissed, a poisonous look on her face.

The man removed his sunglasses slowly, deliberately, as if he thought he was on TV or something. Mike drew back, startled. The guy had a scar that slashed across his temple and into his cropped black hair, as if someone had caught a hook in his eye and yanked it backwards.

“The Headmage is sending out early invitations,” the man said. When Mom didn't respond, the man added, “In light of recent events.”

Mike waited for some sort of argument from his mother, but she gave no hint of recognition. If anything, she looked as confused as he did.

The man's lips pouted. “You don't know, do you.”

“You don't exactly keep me informed, Seth.” Mom sat back down. Then she turned to Mike, as if just realizing he was there. “Mike, this is Seth Stockton. He's… well, a friend of the family.”

Mike crossed his arms. A friend of the family, huh? Mike had never seen him at any family barbeque. That is, if Mom had ever made a family barbeque, Mike would've wondered…
oh, whatever…

Stockton's jaw worked. “There were… other attacks,” he said, ignoring the introduction. “On the other families.”

Mom said, “I will not send Michael to Windham. If you think—”

“They have the book, Sepulchra.”

Mom gasped. A hand flew to her mouth.

Sepulchra
? Mike thought. Mom had always introduced herself as Sippy. That was her name, not… what was it? Sepulchra? What kind of name was that? Mike opened and closed his fist to try and get the blood pumping back into his brain, because either this was a dream, or he was losing his mind.

“The term begins tomorrow. The Headmage expects Michael to be there.”

Headmage?
Mike thought.
What was this, some kind of joke? Some kind of sick, Harry Potter meets Mortal Kombat meets whatever- you-call-that-mutated-cat joke?

“Tomorrow? It's the middle of July—”

“The
Headmage
expects Michael to attend,” Stockton repeated. He turned to leave.

“Seth.”

Mike turned to see his mom sink back into the kitchen chair. She looked drained, as if the fight had finally affected her. “At least heal the wounds on my leg. Please.”

Stockton's eyes narrowed. “Heal them yourself,” he muttered, then vanished through the open doorway.

***

Stockton climbed into his Jeep and slammed the door shut. He breathed in the fresh leather. Then he slammed his fist down on the steering wheel. Why did Sepulchra always have to be so… unnerving?

“Garzan,” he said into the voice-activated speakerphone.

A moment later, he heard a voice in the car. “This is Garzan.”

“I just left Sepulchra's house.”

“And? Another worm?”

“A Calebra.”

A pause. “So it
was
the Brethren.”

Stockton pulled the Jeep out into the street. “Or a Slayer who picked up some black magic on the way.”

“Perhaps. What did she say?”

“She was not informed about the other attacks.”

The voice on the other end groaned. “Our list of allies grows thin, yet we alienate our own kind. The boy is coming, I trust?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Don't worry, Seth. I'll keep an eye on him.”

“As will I, Headmage. As will I.”