The Acropolis

  Chapter 4

  Emma

  They wanted to sedate me. When my mother refused, they suggested a straight jacket. I had, after all, attacked one of their doctors. Not intentionally. Never intentionally, but I had almost choked her to death.

  Dr. Helen Reed is insensible now, yelling something about "her impossible strength." Apparently, I had also cracked one of her ribs.

  "Adrenaline can heighten abilities," a male voice says from behind the curtain where I am now being held.

  I'm not in the cushy Psychology wing anymore. I'm not really sure where I am. I am strapped down to a stretcher, my mother and several medical personnel arguing outside the sectioned off cubicle they had transported me to. There is no fight left in me. My face is stiff, and I know my cheeks are streaked with blood. This scares me. Is this finally it for me?

  "Adrenaline, my ass, Franklin!" Dr. Reed practically shouts. I had really scared her. I had scared myself.

  "She isn't dangerous," my mother says, her voice small. I can see her now with her tall, skeletal frame, her hands rubbing arms that never seem warm anymore.

  "I beg to differ," Reed argues.

  I am really beginning to dislike the woman. Maybe her job has jaded her. She obviously has no compassion.

  I want to move my arms. They are getting that pins and needles feel from being motionless too long. I hadn't meant to hurt anyone. I had been terrified. Nothing more.

  "If you could just tell me what I need to do to get her released . . ." my mother begins.

  Dr. Reed cackles wildly, her words so fast and furious, my spinning head can't keep up. The male voice rises again, and I hear him summon more individuals, invisible people, who draw Helen Reed away. Shadowy figures move chaotically beyond my fabric wall for what seems like hours before a hand suddenly grips the curtain and shoves it aside. My heart rate increases.

  "Ms. Chase?" a familiar male voice says.

  From where I lay, the man looks tall, his lanky body swathed in grayish-blue scrubs. He is a young doctor with reddish-brown hair and an angular face. If they were casting a movie for the modern-day Wizard of Oz, he'd make the perfect scarecrow.

  "How are we doing?" he asks as he approaches me. His eyes are small, sharp. They make me nervous.

  "Where's my mother?"

  He glances over his shoulder at the hall.

  "She will be here in a moment," he says cautiously. "Emma . . . can I call you that?"

  I nod.

  "We need to admit you, run some tests, find out what may be happening to you."

  I look down at the restraints on my arm.

  "Can you take these off, p-please?"

  My voice is small. Anxiety consumes me. I am light-headed and nauseous. Being restrained only makes me panic more.

  "They're for your own safety, Ms. Chase. I can sit you up if you like."

  I want to sob, but I nod instead. He moves to my side, using a lever to lift the head of the bed. From an inclined angle, he doesn't look as tall as he had before. Lanky definitely, medium height, sharp features . . . .

  "I'm Roosevelt Franklin. I work for the hospital."

  "R-r-roosevelt F-franklin . . .?"

  My teeth are chattering, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from being incoherent. Roosevelt smiles wryly, his dark eyes gleaming in the bright fluorescent room.

  "My parents had a thing for great American heroes. Most people just call me Roach."

  Roaches are disgusting, sneaky insects whose name makes my skin crawl. My anxiety kicks up a notch.

  "Y-you're not a doctor?"

  He laughs.

  "Hell, no."

  Being strapped down doesn't seem like such a bad idea anymore. His crass answer fuels my fear, makes me want to lash out. Fight and flight.

  "Where's my mother?" I ask again, slightly panicked.

  Roosevelt begins to look annoyed. It isn't a good look for him. His eyes are beady, his face tight.

  "Look , Emma . . ."

  "You were never good at subtlety, Roach," a male voice interrupts. It has a distinctive Southern drawl I find immediately comforting. A genuine doctor this time?

  "And you were never good at following orders," Roach hisses. "I work on the inside."

  "Rules were made to be broken," the voice answers. There is an accompanying male snicker. A third man?

  "He's incorrigible. Even his own mother refuses to work with him," the third voice says. It is definitely male and as Southern as the voice before it.

  I am frozen with fear. There are footsteps on the linoleum floor behind me, and I flinch as a hand settles gently against my forehead. The hand is large and cool.

  "Hello, Emma. I'm Conor Reinhardt, and I'm here to help you. Promise you won't run, and I'll take off your restraints."

  His voice is low, hypnotic.

  "P-please . . ."

  "Promise me, Emma," Conor says patiently.

  I nod against his hand. The light pressure on my head vanishes as he moves to my side.

  "You dimwit! You can't just release her until we're sure she's not a risk!" Roach argues as I get my first look at Conor Reinhardt.

  There are no adjectives strong enough to describe the blue jean, navy tee-clad young man I see now before me. He is tall, maybe six foot with dark blond hair and startling blue eyes. His hair is carelessly long, falling onto his forehead as he leans over me, pulling first one strap free and then another. I don't move.

  "She's not a flight risk," Conor says calmly as his eyes meet mine. There is an indefinable gleam in his sky blue gaze. Sympathy maybe?

  "Where's my mother?" I whisper.

  He grins crookedly, his face full of an assurance I don't feel.

  "She's safe, sweetheart. But you're not. That's why I'm here."

  "We're here," a sullen voice interjects. Conor looks over my head and grins.

  "Cousins. Now they are incorrigible." He motions idly. "That scruffy imbecile behind you is Will Reinhardt, bane of any woman's existence."

  Roosevelt Franklin flaps his hands angrily.

  "Can the introductions, Reinhardt! You sorry, low-life, inbred . . ."

  I stiffen.

  "And that charming jackass," Conor says as he waves his hand at the fluttering man beside him. "Isn't worth your time."

  Conor moves to my feet, removing each restraint as gently as he can.

  "You have the gall to call me a mule! You wretched, moronic . . ."

  "Write it in your journal and call it a dictionary, Roach. We don't have time," Conor says.

  I sit up slowly, pain flaring in my extremities as blood rushes back down into my hands and feet. I feel my face heat, fear making electric tingles shoot down my spine. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to do something other than listen to the men insult each other.

  "You promised, darlin'. No running," Conor chides as a slightly shorter, but no less impressive version of him moves toward me. Will Reinhardt?

  I scoot away and the boy freezes, throwing his hands up in a gesture of peace. It is a no-win situation. Every time I edge away from any of them, I move closer to another. I am feeling closed in. A scream works its way into my throat, and a hand suddenly clamps over my mouth.

  "No yelling. I wasn't lying when I said you were in danger."

  Conor's breath wafts against my ear, and I squeal, my eyes wide. I try shaking him off, my teeth bared against his palm.

  "She suffers from pantophobia, you idiot! She fears everything," Roach snarls.

  I am shaking uncontrollably now, my body a mass of nerves. Nausea rips through my stomach, and I gag against Conor's hand. I am having trouble breathing. Distantly, I hear Will swear as Conor freezes behind me.

  "And that's what they meant by shy. Gotta love getting the run around," Conor whispers against my ear.

  My pulse is beating too rapidly now, my heart a war drum in my chest. My skin is heating. I whimper without meaning too, my mind
and body refusing to surrender. I thrash violently, my teeth bearing down.

  "Don't!" Conor warns, and I watch in horror as his hand transforms, turning to stone against my lips.

  "You'll only shatter your teeth if you do that."

  I scream against his granite-like palm, my hands coming up to grip his arm. It isn't hard like his hand, and I dig my nails in ruthlessly. He doesn't even flinch. He chuckles instead, the sound causing me to tense as he pulls me off the bed and against his chest.

  "It's nice to see the fear doesn't immobilize you."

  Roach growls. "And you wanted to take off her restraints! Do you really believe she would have been tied to her own bed if she wasn't a risk? Her fears make her insensible. They make her dangerous!"

  "They make her fight," Conor says quietly. "And she's going to need a lot of fight where she's going."

  I am crying now, blood-tinged tears spilling over Conor's stone hand. He has turned to stone! Stone! I am losing my mind. I am hallucinating! I am finally dying and these are my last moments, a hospital room full of crazy men with outrageous abilities. Is it possible to be aware of your own craziness?

  "We need to go," Will says shortly. Conor doesn't argue.

  "We had to battle . . ." Conor pauses as if he is afraid what he's about to say will render me even more senseless. I hate to tell him, but I am already well beyond insanity. Even though I know it is pointless, I keep thrashing. I will fight until there isn't any fight left in me.

  "We had a little skirmish outside. They know she's here. Unless you want real trouble on your hands, we need to go," Conor says to Roach. Roach still looks angry, his face almost purple with rage, but he doesn't argue anymore.

  He goes into action instead, moving equipment around angrily before transforming in front of my eyes. One moment he is a beady-eyed man, the next a serpentine figure, a mix of snake and dragon. I scream and scream, thrashing and fighting until I feel myself beginning to tire. I sag a little against Conor's chest, still fighting.

  "Shhhhhhh . . ."

  He is crooning softly in my ear as if I am a child needing soothed. He frightens me. They all do.

  "I need you to try and calm down, Em. We're not here to hurt you. I know things are scary. But what is after you is a helluva lot scarier than we could ever be. We're gargoyles, a race of people created to guard against evil. That's the short version. We don't have time for the long. Roach, there, is a specific type of gargoyle. Some of us are unique, have certain powers. Roach's line has the power of invisibility. He's going to get us out of here."

  His words are meant to be comforting, an explanation maybe, and still I fight. He moves as he speaks, his words breathless as he works to keep up with Roach and Will while trying to manage me. We aren't in the cubicle anymore, but where we are is beyond me. We are speeding through the hospital so swiftly, the walls and floors blur into one. Occasionally we slow, and I catch a glimpse of the serpentine Roach curling around corners. I am still screaming against Conor's stone hand.

  "Hang on, sweetheart," Conor breathes as he pushes through an opening. Wind pummels my hair.

  I take in the scene absentmindedly, concrete below my feet, a blue open sky above. It is noon, that time of day when the sun is brutal no matter how cold it is outside. There is no doubt we are on the roof. I thrash harder.

  "Damned if you aren't a resilient little thing," Conor grounds out as he tightens his grip before bracing his feet against the roof. There is a loud "whoosh," and we are suddenly airborne. Oh my God! I kick furiously.

  "Now is really not the time to keep thrashing like that," Conor points out.

  His arms loosen somewhat, giving me enough maneuverability to glance in a direction other than forward. I make the mistake of looking down. My fingers dig into Conor's arms.

  "OMMMMMMGGGGGGOOOOO," I scream against his now human-like palm.

  I look up frantically only to find myself staring at huge bat-like wings. It is obvious they belong to the man holding me hostage. I scream again before thrashing against his hold. Better to die now. I am definitely hallucinating. Conor's arms tighten again, strong enough to squeeze the breath out of my lungs.

  "Sweetheart, at this rate, we are both going to be sore as hell tomorrow."

  I think, if I hadn't been pretty sure I was having coma-induced night terrors, I would have been amused by Conor. He is quite the figment of my imagination.

  I see the serpentine Roach from the corner of my eye, floating on air currents nearby while more "whooshing" behind marks the vigilant presence of Will Reinhardt.

  Roach growls, his reptilian voice hoarse and rumbling.

  "Just so you know, that was a very messy Extraction."