Protecting Truth

  ::1::

  A Fight

  I can’t imagine an opponent larger than the one before me. His raging eyes, a tornado of blood, make our planned meeting all the more unsettling.

  Clenching my arnis fighting sticks, I take a single calculated step to my left. He mirrors my action but certainly not to keep an even distance. His very existence, his purpose in life, is to fight. Mine is not.

  I move slowly, crouching for balance, waiting for him to attack.

  “What are you waiting for, pig?” I taunt him and laugh. The overgrown man does look like a pig; the gnarled pink flesh of his face is littered with sprigs of wiry red hair. He spits on the floor at the insult and drops a menacing grunt from his exaggerated underbite.

  Although name-calling will not win points in the end, it’s part of the act. I need to appear worthy of this fight, capable of winning.

  My leather-clad opponent twirls both wooden sticks around his head, spinning them like helicopter blades. They whip around his back and then circle his shoulders three times, blurring with deadly speed.

  “Show-off,” I murmur, annoyed that I have so much more to learn.

  By now, I’m positive he’s sensed my fear and inexperience. I transmit it through the awkwardness with which I hold my weapon, and the nervous perspiration that drips from my neck. Inside, I wrestle my lungs for control over fits of uneven breathing, while replaying the instructions from my teacher in my head. “Sera, hide your fear behind a facade of courage,” Ms. Swift, my Defense Arts instructor, would say. That would come easily to me for most things, but not for violence.

  The revolting man-pig tosses each stick like a baton. They spin at turbo speed, whirling fans in the air, and land in his clenched, sausage-shaped fingers. He grins. A laugh gargles in the back of his throat.

  Intuition urges me to end his games and finally attack. This match needs to be over, no matter the outcome. I inhale one last anxious breath, then, with the focus of a raging bull, I throw my petite body at his disturbingly large frame. With cunning instinct, he steps out of the way. I whip my stick, striking a horizontal blow to his head, making contact with his pointed ear. In response, his stick circles and cracks my wrist and retracts for a second nauseating blow. Each shocks my system, fueling a deep and angry fire. A scream erupts from my lips, and I roll forward and jab the blunt end of one stick into his stomach. He arches back, recoiling.

  We circle each other. Tension builds, then explodes as we simultaneously attack. Our sticks clack together again and again. High backhand. Vertical blow. Whip. Snap. Inward strike. He leans in, using his Goliath strength to muscle me across the room. I lose my balance, stumbling to the floor. The moment I regain my footing, he smacks my shoulder. The hit sends me flying across the room, slamming into the mirror-covered walls. Glass cracks, shattering. Shards crash to the floor. A splintering pain shoots across my back, and I wheeze.

  The creature attacks me, wrenching his sticks in alternating diagonal blows to my head. I block him, leaving myself just enough time to regain my composure. I’m standing, and we’re off again. Sticks cracking, we dance across the room in a deadly fight. The sound reverberates off the mirrored walls. I want to ignore the distracting reflections created, but how can I with a behemoth man-pig, multiplied a thousand times over in the corner of my eyes? Yes, I can run away, wander into another time in history easily enough, but that’s not the plan. I need to win this match.

  The beast strikes my side. I return a blast to his head. That area seems to be his weakness. He drops one stick and grabs his forehead with his hoofed fingers. I strike again, a sickening crack to the back of his knees. His legs unhinge and collapse. His bulking mass falls to the floor with a thud, but he isn’t done. Not yet. That would be too easy. Resting on the ground, he swipes his stick at my kneecaps. I leap over it and again when his pole swings back before he rolls to stand. With all my strength, I flip my body over his head. Landing firm, I spin to face his back.

  The man-pig falters, unable to pivot quickly enough to defend himself before I raise both sticks and slice the wood through his head. The weapons cut through his skull like lasers, although in reality there are none.

  He groans once more, but this time from defeat. Each half of his now divided body wisps away into the air, rolling away in bright blue electrified dust sparkles. The dissipating energy of the hologram causes my hair to stand on end as it passes. It’s amazing to see something so monstrous release into something so beautiful.

  “Ten minutes.” A pocket watch clicks off. “You’re getting much better.”

  I look up.

  Professor Raunnebaum studies me from the classroom door, seemingly pleased with my victory.

  “Not good enough.” I wipe the sweat from my brow and collapse on the floor, exhausted. Both sticks roll out of my hands, far from arm’s reach. There’s a wound on my back from the smashed mirror, but I ignore the dull sting.

  “Only ten minutes?” I ask, hyperventilating. “Felt like forever.”

  “Yes, but what does it matter? Improvement is improvement.”

  He wants me to be happy with my weeks of disciplined work, but I’m not. “Maybe we should make the lessons more difficult?” I ask. My chest heaves in and out.

  “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Sera. Besides, you’ve practically mastered every defense hologram we’ve created for you to fight. Turner will have to invent new characters and fighting routines to meet your evolved abilities.”

  “Then do it,” I snap. I glance over at him just as he raises his bushy black eyebrows and crosses his arms. I know he doesn’t like it when I’m bossy.

  “Tell Turner the more knowledgeable and scarier the hologram, the better,” I huff.

  “Where’s the confidence, child? Ms. Swift will be most pleased with your enhanced abilities when she returns for fall semester. Your skill level is quite good, probably much better than any Wanderer in your junior class. And possibly much better than your own Protector,” he says with condemnation.

  I sit up on my elbows and look at him. “It’ll never be good enough.” My breathing finally calms, and I force air through my nose.

  “Why are you pushing yourself so hard? I’ve never seen a paralleled determination in another. Not even one whose position merited such rigorous training.” He examines me.

  I glance away, my body instinctively withdrawing from answering his question. I find my reflection in the nearest mirror and lean forward to wipe blood from my forehead, pretending I haven’t heard him. The professor knows I will not answer. He’s asked about my fighting obsession a million times before. I push a dark-brown flyaway behind my ear and wipe the smeared mascara from underneath my eyes.

  “It feels so—unnatural—fighting,” I say out loud but more to myself. I ponder the issue. “I’m performing the moves, but I’m not connected.” Hmph. “I think more practice will help.”

  The professor shakes his mop of erratic black hair. Every strand moves except for one pure white streak, which starts at his hairline and points off toward the ceiling. “Yes, well, don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re a Wanderer, after all, not a Protector.” He waves his finger. Professor Raunnebaum likes to remind me of this point often as though it’s an unchangeable weakness.

  Unlike my team members, my job as Wanderer is to open the time travel portal, not to protect, like Bishop, and not to see a relic’s life path, its entire history, like Sam.

  “Does Bishop know what you’ve been up to?” he asks. I suspect he already knows the answer.

  I sit up completely, dropping my hands on my knees. “He does,” I hesitate, “but—”

  “He doesn’t know how much you’ve improved, then?” He finishes my sentence. His black eyes flicker knowingly, readi
ng the conflict on my face. My gaze falls to the floor.

  Bishop’s been put in this world to protect me. As his Wanderer, my safety is his job, his life’s goal. My new determination to become a better fighter means I might render Bishop useless.

  True, Bishop knows a little about my training. He says he understands my need to feel in control and less like a “damsel in distress.” How can he tell me not to become a more skilled fighter? As my Protector, his sole goal is my safety, and as my boyfriend, he happily gives me whatever I want, whether it’s of a serious or a childlike nature. He’s utterly selfless when it comes to my needs. Unfortunately, I seem to be the opposite, at least on this one particular point.

  I throw myself onto the rubberized floor, arms and legs extended, and sigh with exaggeration.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him. I don’t concern myself with teenage drama. However, there are two things you should consider, Sera. Your new zeal for fighting means interfering with the delicate balance of your three-person team. Bishop instinctively needs to protect you. If he can’t or doesn’t have to, it will affect his ego on a subconscious level. And second, you should come to an understanding with Turner, before he spills your training secrets to his brother.” The professor chuckles. “Both might create some serious problems for you.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.” My brow furrows. “I’ll attempt to bribe Turner later.”

  That’s a conflict I definitely need to avoid. Bishop knowing the extent of my abilities would be inherently hurtful, yes, but his brother, Turner, knowing something about me that Bishop doesn’t, might create a larger, unwanted issue. The tension between them is something I can’t comprehend. Bishop only explained their dislike for each other as “sibling rivalry” and refused to say any more.

  I think back to the first time I saw Turner, several months ago, the night of my first date with Bishop.

  •

  After returning from Paris, Bishop and I ambled, hands entwined, to our dorm apartment. We stopped at the front door and faced each other. As soon as our eyes met, he closed the distance between us in one determined motion, melding our bodies together. He placed his full, warm lips over mine, kissing me with a sweet and controlled intensity. His cupped hands caressed my cheeks, and I wrapped my arms around his waist.

  The intimate moment was short. I jumped, startled when someone nearby cleared his throat. Bishop and I turned to see a boy standing down the hall, leaning against a wall. The shadows of the hallway swallowed his body, hiding his features. A nearby flickering lamp only revealed the golden contours of his face and shoulder.

  “Brother,” the boy said sternly and nodded at Bishop. He crossed his arms and took a confident step forward.

  “Turner.” Bishop stiffened and nodded.

  Animosity thickened the air. Immediately, though I’d never met Bishop’s fraternal twin, Turner, I wanted to escape and leave them to talk.

  “Sera.” Bishop turned to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He kissed me on the forehead and opened the apartment door. He guided me in, pressing his palm into my back, shuffling me away. I looked over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Turner. Our eyes met as he walked into the light. An inquisitive expression crossed his face, and then he grinned in such a way that forced my heart to skip a beat.

  “Wait, um, okay. Night,” I said confused, looking between the two.

  The door shut tight, severing me from their tension. Muffled noises of an intense conversation trickled through the door. What they discussed, I couldn’t make out. But soon the tones turned irate, voices raised. Someone was thrown against the door with a violent smash. They’d broken into a fight.

  I rushed and swung the door open, but to my shock, the two were gone and the halls were empty.

  “Bishop,” I called, leaning out. My voice echoed, but no one answered.

  “Bishop?” I stepped from the apartment, scanning the hallways, worried.

  “I’m here.” Bishop crept from the darkness, his face red. I detected a slight limp in his step and ran to him.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” I eyed his leg and reached for it. “I heard you two arguing. You said you didn’t get along, but…”

  “It’s nothing, truly. Just a normal brotherly scrap,” he interrupted, and wrapped his good arm around my back to guide me inside.

  •

  That was months ago. At Bishop’s urging, I’d let it go. But I had no idea how far the “brotherly scrap” stretched. On normal occasions they avoid each other, which seems to keep the atmosphere fairly peaceful. In fact, even after that night, weeks passed before I was properly introduced to Turner. After that, he showed up everywhere. He kept his distance, often smiling and waving from afar, but it was enough to send Bishop into hysterics. I still don’t understand why.

  If I continue my training in this manner, with Turner’s involvement in the programming of the touchable defense holograms for my practices, their personalities will have reason to collide this coming semester. There’s no way to avoid it, unless I keep my extracurricular training a secret from Bishop.

  The professor takes out his pocket watch and glances at its face. “I’ve got to run, Sera. Turn out the lights when you’re finished.”

  “You can turn them off now.” I sigh. I don’t have the energy to move from the floor.

  The professor flips the switch, leaving the room pitch black, and disappears. He moves so quickly, I sometimes wonder if he’s a hologram. But his speed is merely a skill developed over time, one reserved for a Protector.

  I shift my body across the floor, wincing at the pain, until I’ve repositioned myself under an air vent to cool my overheated body.

  The quiet and darkness allow me time to meditate, to collect my thoughts, which of course are with Bishop. They always are now that he’s gone home to London for summer vacation. I miss him dearly—my perfect, gorgeous Protector and boyfriend.

  I groan and roll over, letting my face muscles relax on the rubberized surface. Cool air dries my drenched back. I’m a complete mess in so many ways. I exhale with exhaustion.

  If Bishop knew how hard I’d been working on defense, how far I’ve come, I think it would not only upset him, but perhaps his quiet, sensitive ways would mislead him to believe that I don’t need him. Or more absurdly, that I don’t want him. And if possibly hurting him isn’t bad enough, my actions might tip him off to my ultimate plan: to go back in time and save my mother from the Underground—to finally finish what I started.

  This time would be different, of course, because now I know my mom isn’t dead. All my life I’d believed she died in a car accident because that’s what my family believes. But last semester I saw her for myself, during a disastrous meeting with Cece, the head of the Underground—enemies of the Society of Wanderers. At the time, I was so naive that I walked Bishop and myself into a trap, a trap arranged by our backstabbing classmates Perpetua, Stu, and Jessica. In the end, Bishop and I barely escaped from the Underground with our lives.

  So when I go back to face Cece and find my mom, I’ll do it alone, without Bishop. I need to protect him from the truth and never allow Cece to hurt him or anyone else I care for, ever again.

  A creeping sound breaks my concentration.

  Still on edge from thinking about the Underground, I sit up and glance around.

  “Who’s there?”

  ::2::

  Turner

  My body tenses, scanning for a figure creeping against the darkened mirrors. Out of the stillness, a boy speaks.

  “She rests quietly in darkness/under a perfect cloudless sky/dreaming of Seraphim angels/with which she conspires,” the boy recites. But whether the words are his own poetry or someone else’s, I’m not sure.

  Hearing his familiar voice, raspy with a British accent, I relax. “Haven’t you heard it’s not nice to sneak up on people?”

  “You seem so peaceful resting there. I dare say, it compelled me to speak in verse,” he says in a pla
yful, sophisticated tone.

  “You’re weird, Turner.” A point I have never said out loud but have thought often.

  “Quite possibly.” He flicks the light switch on. I glance up from where I rest.

  He leans lazily against the wall with his arms across his chest, hands resting on his shoulders, a strange pose he often takes. His dark wavy hair, a well-coordinated mess, falls into his eyes and frames his cheekbones. His physical appearance, that of a fraternal twin, is similar in beauty to Bishop’s, but different, in a darker, complex manner. The intensity of his silvery slate-colored eyes always hold my gaze until they embarrass me, and I’m forced to look away, face red and burning with heat.

  “I hate it when you stare at me like that,” I say, to make him feel as guilty as I do.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Seraphina.” He strolls forward with dramatic confidence.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t. Okay?” The longer, formal version of my name feels of a more intimate nature, one that I exclusively reserve for Bishop.

  “As you wish, my lady.” He bows as though rolling an imaginary feather cap from his head, and then he holds out his palm. A small package sits inside his curled fingers.

  “For you,” he says.

  “What’s this?” I grab the box.

  “Don’t know. Ms. Midgenet asked me to deliver it.” He unsnaps the cuffs of his long-sleeve shirt and then rolls them up to his elbows while I inspect the package.

  I turn the brown paper-covered box around in my hand and squint at the return address. One glance leaves me electrified. I hadn’t expected the delivery to arrive so quickly. I repress a smile, remembering Turner always watches me closely. Too closely. I clear my throat.

  “Thanks,” I say, pulling myself from the floor.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” He cocks his head, trying to decipher the look on my face.