Fragile Spirits

  He didn’t need to ask twice. I grabbed the plastic bag at the bottom of the closet, pulled out my phone and wallet, and headed to the door.

  When I got home, I searched for Vivienne. My car was in the garage, but there was no sign of my Speaker. The last place I looked was in her bedroom. I called her name several times before I entered.

  The room looked pretty much the same as it always had, but it smelled different. It smelled like Vivienne—fresh and with a faint hint of spice. I took a deep breath and turned a full circle. Her e-reader was on the desk next to a tattered duffel bag. I knew I shouldn’t snoop, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Her screen came to life on her table of contents. Based on her attitude and appearance, what I saw was not at all what I expected. The books on her reader were classics and historical fiction; the newest selections were nonfiction books about learning disorders.

  A door slammed downstairs. I turned the device off and put it back exactly as I had found it.

  I slid out the door and into my bedroom before heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  I fought the urge to go peek. I was certain it was Vivienne’s combat-type boots clomping up the stairs, but another set joined her footsteps. A clicking sound. The boots kept on tromping past my door, but the clicking footsteps stopped outside.

  A faint knocking came from my door.

  “Come in,” I called.

  “She’s fine,” Cinda said, twirling a rental car key chain and keys on her finger. “It all went smoothly.”

  I tried to not act as confused as I was. “That’s good.” I ran a hand through my shower-wet hair, hoping she’d give me a clue what had happened.

  “Charles was very surprised when Vivienne made her request. He thought she would give it at least a week, but she was absolutely firm.”

  A horrible rush of nausea overcame me, and I covered my mouth as it dawned on me what had happened today. I held my breath for a moment and the urge to throw up passed. Vivienne had rejected me. I would go this cycle without a Speaker.

  “She’s packing now,” Cinda said. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

  I took another deep breath, lowered my hand, and tried to smile. “Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” I’d been too worried about protecting Vivienne from getting busted for breaking IC rules, only to discover she’d been messing around in the ward doing who knew what and then requesting a formal Council meeting to reject me. Perfect.

  I could feel Vivienne’s anxiety before she even got to my doorway. “Hey,” she said.

  She hadn’t even given us a week! It took everything in me to not shout at her. Instead, I simply stared at her in silence.

  She shuffled foot to foot, her transmissions of discomfort increasing until they bordered on dread.

  “Ready to go?” Cinda asked.

  Vivienne stared at me a moment longer. “Yeah, I guess so.” She stayed planted, just staring.

  The burning on the back of my neck flared. “Well, what are you waiting for? If you’re going to leave, leave.”

  Cinda brushed past her and then, with one last look and a strong burst of regret, she followed.

  I buried my face in my hands and tried to breathe. The back of my neck felt as though it were on fire.

  The front door opened and closed, and it wasn’t until I heard a car start in front of the house that I could move.

  Gone.

  She’d made up her mind in less than twenty-four hours.

  My phone rang. “Race” lit the screen. Just what I needed—salt in the wound.

  “Hello.”

  “Well, were you surprised?”

  Surprised was not the right word somehow. I straightened the papers on my desk so that they aligned perfectly with the edge. “What do you want, Race? I’m not in the mood for hazing. Get it over with.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

  “You don’t know.”

  “Yes, I know!” I rubbed the back of my burning neck. It was almost as if I could feel Vivienne’s emotions from wherever Cinda had taken her. But it couldn’t be. What I felt from an outside source was sorrow. Surely, what she felt was relief. She was rid of me. “How could I not know?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

  “Do you need something? Because if not, I’ve got stuff to do.” Like try not to break down.

  “Sure. Just wanted to say congrats.”

  I hung up without saying good-bye. “Thanks,” I muttered. I thought back on what he’d said about how she’d ditch me if I was lucky. He probably genuinely thought congratulations were in order.

  I opened the file on my desk and turned my computer on. I had to complete the report for yesterday’s disastrous resolution. My vision blurred as I typed her name. Vivienne Thibideaux. I said the name out loud, and the back of my neck burned again. The horrible ache I’d felt earlier that I was picking up from outside myself flared again. Great. Just what I needed. Someone else’s sorrow to compound my own. For the first time, being a Protector sucked. Truly sucked.

  As I typed up the report, I realized the resolution hadn’t been the loss I’d imagined it. She had resolved a Malevolent on her first attempt. No easy feat. Usually, a new Speaker was initiated with an easy assignment.

  What would happen to me now? I sent the report electronically and filed the paper in my drawer. Would I end up in a desk job like Race’s Speaker, or would I be a floating third used for odd jobs and exorcisms like Race?

  The front door opened and closed again.

  Cinda’s delicate clicking footsteps rose up the stairs. This time, she didn’t pause outside my room, she just burst on in.

  “I didn’t expect that from you.” She shook her finger at me. “Sure, she’s a bit unconventional, but you didn’t have to be mean.”

  I almost turned around to be sure she wasn’t scolding someone behind me. “Mean? How was I mean? I think I was pretty civil under the circumstances.”

  She was irrationally pissed. Shaking, even. Since she was a new Speaker, brand-new, I could barely feel her transmissions, but the sorrow from the other source kept a steady beat in my soul. “You didn’t even say good-bye,” Cinda said.

  “I wasn’t the one leaving.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You could have at least hugged her or shaken hands or something. She’s a wreck.”

  “Yes, she is.” And I was probably much better off for her decision, but still, my chest ached, and I felt like the total loser Vivienne believed me to be. And I felt lost. And hurt. And deep down, for some unexplainable reason, I missed her. I slammed my fist on my desk. Hell, I barely knew her. The whole situation was ridiculous.

  “We’d only known each other a short while,” I said. “I have no clue who she is—nor do I care.” Which was an absolute lie. It was taking everything in me to not ask where Cinda had dropped her off.

  “She cried the whole way home,” Cinda shouted.

  So it was Vivienne’s emotions I was feeling from outside. She was sad. Why? The back of my neck felt like it was on fire. Maybe some Benadryl or cream for bug bites or poison ivy would make it stop. “I need to go to my car,” I said, waiting for Cinda to get out of my doorway.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I hope it’s because you’re going to go apologize.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I was being bombarded with Vivienne’s emotions from wherever she was, dealing with the ultimate rejection, my neck felt like it was infested with fire ants, and I was being hassled by this pushy girl blocking my doorway.

  “Me, apologize? For what? I didn’t leave. She did.”

  Cinda threw her arms up in the air dramatically and then huffed out. Fortunately, she went to her room and not downstairs. I wasn’t up for more theatrics or guilt. Things sucked enough on their own without enhancement.

  I pul
led my medical kit out of my trunk and trudged to the kitchen. I could hear my phone chime upstairs, which meant I had received a text, but I blew it off.

  I smoothed some Benadryl cream on the back of my neck, but that only made it worse.

  I closed the kit and sat on a stool, resting my cheek on the cool counter. I could still feel Vivienne’s soul transmitting, and it added to my own misery.

  My text alert chimed from upstairs again. It could be Charles, and after last night, I needed to be on my best behavior.

  With great effort, I made one foot go forward and then the other until I’d made it up the stairs and to my room.

  I slumped into my desk chair and stared at my screen.

  We need to talk—V.

  What was she playing at? “No!” I shouted. The end was the end. Being around her would torture me.

  I shuffled over to my bed and flopped down, exhausted. Too exhausted to reason this out effectively. I stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing. How had she wriggled under my skin in so short a period of time? She was obnoxious, abrasive, intentionally argumentative . . . and brilliant, beautiful, fascinating, and I had no idea how I could go without seeing her again. The burn on my neck flared.

  “Damn!” I stomped to my bathroom, wet a hand towel with cool water, and wrapped it behind my neck. I was a master at pushing negativity and bad experiences into an inaccessible box in my mind never to be visited again, and that is where Vivienne Thibideaux would be relegated, just as soon as I could bring myself to do it.

  ELEVEN

  21st-Century Cycle, Journal Entry 4:

  No events of significance to record.

  Paul Blackwell—Protector 993

  It was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I hadn’t slept at all last night because of the situation with Vivienne, and the temptation to put my head down on my desk and sleep was almost too much to resist. I just knew that with my luck in this class, Ms. Mueller would call on me, and I’d do something stupid—like drool—and embarrass myself.

  I stretched and yawned. Class was only half-over. This would be a test of my willpower to stay conscious.

  Lenzi and Alden were not at school because they were on assignment somewhere with Race acting as the spare Protector. I looked around the room and realized how isolated a life I really lived. I’d only been in school here a few weeks, but still, I didn’t know anyone. It was probably better that way. Having to keep my real life secret would be more of a burden if I got close to someone outside the IC.

  Ms. Mueller glared at me from her podium, cutting a perfectly good stretch short. “Am I boring you, Mr. Blackwell?”

  Yes, you’re boring me to tears. “No, ma’am.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry.”

  Once Ms. Mueller returned to her monotone lecture, the blond girl to my right smiled over at me and whispered, “Ms. Mule Face finds one person to pick on each year. Looks like you’re it now. It used to be that Lenzi girl who sits in front of you.”

  I nodded and wondered what it was about me that had caught Ms. Mueller’s attention. I did nothing to stick out . . . like dye my hair pink. I was the exact opposite of Vivienne, in fact. I tried my best to blend in, follow the rules, and conform. Perhaps Ms. Mueller had singled me out simply because I was the new student.

  “My name is Clarice,” she whispered.

  “Miss Barton!” The girl shuddered at Ms. Mueller’s shout. “Is there something you would like to share with the rest of the class?”

  Clarice shook her head and stared at the notebook on her desk.

  “Please confine your flirting to before and after school. My classroom is no place for it.”

  There were very few people in the world I didn’t like. At that moment, Ms. Mueller was one of them. I sat back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest, and studied her. “Size up your opponent,” the IC rule book stated. “Study him to discover both his strengths and weaknesses.”

  Starting at the top of her head, I began my observations of Ms. Mueller, who, satisfied with Clarice’s reaction, was droning on again about the Battle of Whateverberg. By the time I got to the bulbous turkey pin she wore in honor of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, I gave up my mission. The monstrosity had real tail feathers and was so heavy it made her blouse pucker, causing me to decide that she wasn’t really an opponent after all, merely an inconvenience.

  A burst of anxiety slammed into me, then a knock on the door interrupted the lecture.

  “Open the door, please, Miss Sanders,” Ms. Mueller directed.

  A lanky brunette with a severe case of acne shuffled to the door and swung it open. I almost fainted.

  Ms. Mueller gave an exasperated sigh. “What do you want?”

  Vivienne stood in the doorway wearing her classic expression of hostility. “I’m a new student. The counselor sent me up here.”

  Ms. Mueller shuffled the papers in front of her. “My class is closed. The counselor must have made a mistake.”

  Vivienne waved a half sheet of paper and laid it on Ms. Mueller’s podium. “Room 134, Margaret Mueller.”

  “Well, I . . .” Ms. Mueller’s face pinched up into a scowl as she studied Vivienne with blatant distaste. “Just have a seat until we get it straightened out.”

  Vivienne looked directly at me the entire time she walked down the aisle to sit in Lenzi’s vacant desk. Her transmissions were jumbled, but clearly she was nervous. I kept my expression neutral, but my insides were flipping over. One part of me was furious that I’d be forced to deal with her on a day-to-day basis—well, unless Mueller got her way and transferred Vivienne out. The other part of me was ecstatic. Perhaps it was because, as a Protector, I was naturally drawn to her because she was a Speaker. Or maybe it was because it was her . . .

  She slid into Lenzi’s desk, faced the front, and I could finally breathe. Clarice leaned closer. “Looks like you might be off Mule Face’s radar for a while. Freak girl will be much more fun to pick on.”

  Vivienne twisted in her chair and glared directly at Clarice.

  “Oops,” Clarice said under her breath.

  Yeah, oops. I’d seen that look before, directed at me, and it wasn’t good. I looked around and noticed everyone was staring at Vivienne, including Ms. Mueller.

  Instead of her usual Goth garb, Vivienne was dressed in the uniform worn by all girls at this private school: a white Izod, blue blazer, and a tan pleated skirt, but even dressed identically to every other girl, Vivienne stuck out. Her pale skin and hot pink hair were certainly eye-catching, but her demeanor was what made her truly unique. And she didn’t seem to care a bit that she had caught everyone’s attention. She stared back at them with calm indifference. I knew better. I felt her anxiety. This was terrible for her, and it made me want to intervene . . . but it wasn’t my problem. She had rejected me. I owed her nothing.

  Ms. Mueller cleared her throat and turned the page in her lecture notes. “So, who can tell me about the military order issued by President Lincoln on January 1, 1863?”

  As usual, the class members exchanged clueless glances. Normally, Alden would chime in at this point and fill in all the details Ms. Mueller sought, but since he wasn’t here, she was met with silence and shuffling of feet and papers.

  Vivienne half raised her hand, wiggling her black-tipped fingernails. Ms. Mueller’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you have a question, Miss . . .” She scanned the paper Vivienne had handed her. “Um . . . Miss . . .”

  “Thibideaux,” Vivienne supplied. “And no. I don’t have a question. I have the answer.”

  Ms. Mueller smirked, and I felt Vivienne’s anger surge, then that emotion was replaced by something else—something bordering on gloating.

  “By all means, please answer,” Ms. Mueller said.

  And Vivienne did. In a manner Alden would have applauded, she described in detail the contents of the Emancipation Proclamatio
n, including its positive effects and legal shortcomings as well as the social impact on the Southern states.

  My classmates stared at her in absolute astonishment.

  Ms. Mueller leaned forward. “You must have had a very fine history teacher at your previous school.”

  Vivienne shrugged. “Nah. My school sucked. I just read about it somewhere.”

  Well, she was consistently unpredictable-that I knew for sure. And I’d just discovered one of the things she was hiding behind her toxic plant disguise: She was supersmart. Smart and well educated—or at least well read. I thought back to the list on her reader and more clicked into place. She read classics, historical fiction, and books on learning disabilities. Why the last genre? I wondered.

  My classmates eventually stopped gawking and turned back to the front, and Ms. Mueller resumed her lecture.

  I leaned forward so that my face was close to Vivienne, sitting directly in front of me. So close I could smell her now-familiar scent that reminded me of the candle store. I whispered, “What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing you’re doing here,” she whispered back. A twinge of irritation emanated from her.

  Ms. Mueller kept on babbling, eyes only on her lecture notes.

  “But I thought . . .” The burning on my neck flared when she swiveled in her chair and stared at me.

  “Hi. Nice to see you too.” She spun back around and crossed her arms over her chest, anger and sadness rolling from her.

  Crap. I’d hurt her feelings. I rubbed my hand over the burning skin on my neck. “I’m sorry,” I said a little louder. “I’m confused.”

  “No kidding.”

  Clarice leaned across the aisle. “You know her?” she whispered so quietly I had to read her lips. Her eyes went wide when I nodded.

  For a very long time, I simply stared at the back of Vivienne’s head. It made no sense that she was here, since she had rejected me. Maybe Charles was so desperate to have another pair protecting Lenzi, he had her here until he could replace . . . a wave of nausea rolled through me . . . until he could replace me. I would be the one to go. The Speaker had control, and she had chosen. It only made sense he’d plant her in the school Lenzi’s mother had chosen for her. Alden was here to protect her, and so was I. Vivienne and I were to guard her as a pair.