The Halo Chronicles: The Guardian Page 2

  After fourth period Government, I sit alone at a corner table in the cafeteria eating a BLT sandwich, carrots, Pringles, and a Vitamin Water. Kate offered to send me with lunch money, but I don’t like taking things. Room and board’s hard enough.

  As I eat, I try to ignore the other tables of tightly packed kids. I’ve seen it all before—tons of times. High school seems to follow the rules of nature, birds of the same species flocking together. A couple of the tables are noticeably darker, mostly misfits, pariahs, an occasional Goth. There are the few bright tables of the overachievers and honors kids, glowing like beams of sunlight. The predominant tables, though, are a mix of popular kids, their halos, while encompassing both light and dark, are equally weak. They lack substance and definition. Then in the far corner, completely alone, is the roiling halo of Jonah Wilkes.

  After lunch is English, not one of my favorite subjects. Reading aloud embarrasses me and every English teacher I’ve ever known has had a hard-on for making the shy kids read in front of the class. When I walk into English, I’m prepared for that. I’m even prepared for Jonah Wilkes, sulking in the back of the class. What I’m not prepared for is Mr. Abernathy.

  He’s watching the door, evaluating the students as they enter, sizing up the guys and ogling the girls. Instantly my stomach cramps and my bowels turn watery. I breathe through it, then mumbling an excuse, turn around and sprint for the bathroom down the hall.

  I spend a few minutes splashing cold water on my face and calculating my chances of transferring to another class. When I return he’s waiting, smiling at me in an uncomfortable way. Mr. Abernathy is swathed in cold, smooth gunmetal. He leaves a metallic taste in my mouth that makes me want to grimace.

  “Alexia Grabovski, I presume.” His voice is jovial, adding to the ick factor. He runs a manicured hand through his expensively tousled hair before gesturing toward an open desk. “Please take a seat. Join us, Alexia.”

  The only seats left are in the front row. I wonder why?

  The class snickers as he places a not-so-fatherly hand just behind my shoulder, careful not to actually touch me, and guides me to the front center seat. My skin crawls. If I hesitate even a fraction of a second he’ll bump into me causing “accidental” contact. Without stopping to question how I know, I realize he’s used this ploy before. With a tight smile, I slip away from him and take the seat on the end.

  “I prefer to be called Alex,” I say, after swallowing back the vomit that’s lodged in my throat. The wall behind his desk is covered with accolades. Awards and articles highlighting him as teacher of the century.

  He follows me as the class begins to lose interest and pursue their own conversations. Standing benignly off to my right side, he bends forward slightly so his stale breath brushes against the sensitive skin of my collarbone but still not close enough to seem inappropriate. His smile holds polite yet professional interest at odds with the dark sphere of menace that encircles him.

  Bile rises in my throat and I swallow it down with a gag. I kick myself for being a naive idiot—for not skipping school, for actually wanting to stay, however briefly, with the Fosters. For believing things might be different this time.

  Mr. Abernathy’s husky voice is nearly covered by the din of the class. “All comfy now, Alexia?”

  Contorting in my seat, I look him straight in the eyes. His pupils are so dilated that his watery blue eyes look black. Up close, his expensive cologne has a stench like sour bodies—another byproduct of my condition. It fills my nose, mixing with the metal taste on my tongue and causing my stomach to cramp even worse. Fighting the urge to put my head between my knees, I try to distract myself by thinking up a nickname for him. I decide on Mr. Creepy.

  Mr. Creepy stares. His fingertips twitch, as if resisting the urge to touch me. And I can’t help but wonder what if this weren’t such a public setting?

  After a long, uncomfortable pause he whispers, “Alexia.” The way he says it makes me feel exposed, like I’m spread-eagle in my underwear.

  The taste in my mouth is nearly unbearable. I stifle a gag as my voice comes out low and pained. “It’s Alex.”

  His reply’s a whisper. “You shouldn’t be afraid of who you are. When you get older like me, you’ll realize Alexia is a gorgeous name.” He’s looking down at me, only not at my face.

  I feel violated, numb, but refuse to let it show. “Are we going to have a lesson today? Or just talk about what old people know?”

  Lips twisting into something akin to a grin, his gaze travels lazily upward to my face. But there’s malice in his eyes. Still, he lingers. “Touché, Alexia.”

  Strolling back to his desk, he makes a pretense of reviewing his papers while really he’s leering at a couple making out in the back of the class. From my vantage point in the front, I follow his gaze to where the guy’s got his hands on his girlfriend’s ass as she perches on the edge of his desk. Mr. Creepy’s getting off on it.

  Suddenly, his eyes shift to me and I get caught watching. Flushing with excitement, he continues to pointedly hold my gaze as his halo coils around him like a snake. He wants me to know that he saw me. Unfortunately, I do.

  Feigning a look of shock, Mr. Creepy clears his throat then frowns at the couple disapprovingly. “Let’s begin,” he says. Although speaking to the entire class, his eyes dart to mine secretively before sliding away. Then directed to the girl-half of the couple he orders, “Please take your seat, Miss Bennett.”

  He spends the entire lecture seated, lounging behind his desk. His relaxed posture, like every gesture and every question, is calculated. Whenever he looks in my direction his eyes make me feel dirty—like he’s projecting pornographic thoughts.

  Five minutes before the end of class his eyes turn feverish and he dismisses us early. I try to get the heck out of there but get stuck behind a couple of slow kids, one of the last ones to exit. Waiting anxiously for my turn to leave, I try to ignore my glassy-eyed teacher and his x-rated thoughts pummeling me from across the room as I make my escape.

  I wonder why none of the other students seem to notice something’s amiss. Maybe on top of everything else, I’m beginning to hallucinate. Then I realize they can’t see his halo, which undulates about him in stilted, jerky motions. In my peripheral vision I see him lick his nonexistent lips. He smirks, knowing he has my undivided attention. His dark halo continues to thrust.

  I have to get the hell out!

  Stumbling out the door, I bump into Jonah. His halo’s darkened again into charcoal, but it doesn’t bother me at this particular moment. His pale eyes, however, are unnerving as he regards me uncomfortably, with something that could pass for sympathy. “Fuckin’ teachers,” he mumbles before ducking his head and shuffling away.

  In Physical Education, I’m grateful there are no dark ones to avoid. I’m also grateful it’s the first day and we’re not expected to do anything other than watch a video. Hurray for Coach Mann and her school-bus-yellow halo!

  After school, I try, unsuccessfully, to switch English classes. By the time I leave Midlands, the place is deserted and it kind of feels good not to be looking over my shoulder. I don’t think about tomorrow or the fact that I probably won’t last a week in Mr. Creepy’s class. I won’t think about having to leave Kate and Steven’s so soon. Instead, I decide to go to the used CD store and blow what little money I’ve managed to save on music. After the hellish day I’ve just survived, I’m entitled to indulge. So I begin compiling a list of bands in my head.

  Just as the green awnings of the local shops come into view, something overhead captures my attention. It’s like a blazing light streaking across the sky, but low and close. Like a meteor about to crash into earth, or a plane falling from the sky—but there’s no smoke. If it’d been night, I’d believe it was a shooting star.

  But stars can’t visibly burn in broad daylight, can they?

  It vanishes just beyond the shops, leaving me momentarily blinded and anxiously listening for some sort of inevitable collis
ion that never happens. This is why I’m distracted—why I’m not thinking about Orchard Avenue and the clump of dark ones—until it’s too late.

  “Hey, new girl!”

  I hear and feel them at the same time. Instant, flu-like pain has me cramping forward, clutching at my abdomen. My heart accelerates into an arrhythmic staccato. Fear is sharp and tangy in my mouth, like an old penny.

  I freeze, wondering if it’s too late to run.

  Then, I feel him behind me. My skin prickles at my hairline just before he grabs my shoulder, spinning me around. My heart sinks. There aren’t just three guys, but six or seven. Only a few are dark ones, the rest pale gray followers. The one in front of me is the color of lead pipe. He might be considered cute, but it’s difficult to see objectively through the filter of his sickening halo.

  He steps back, appraising me with a smirk. “Hey, I hear you’re so hot for Mr. Abernathy you were practically giving it to him in English today.” The boys laugh.

  The air whooshes from my lungs as I’m shocked into silence. Toward the back of the group, I see Jonah. He looks at me, maybe apologetically, then mumbles, “I’m out.” Turning his back to the dark intentions of his associates, he leaves. I watch his halo darken and churn as he retreats.

  A finger snaps in front of my eyes, interrupting my reverie. “Over here, new girl.”

  Closing my eyes against a wave of nausea, I concentrate on edging backwards, away from the kid in front of me. I manage two steps before meeting a wall of solid mass. Two of the boys have circled around behind me, a predatory move I should’ve anticipated. I shudder, my eyes popping open, as they put their hands on my body. Their leader leers gleefully at me, checkmate in his expression. “Bring her this way,” he growls to them.

  They push me roughly forward. One cups my ass as he walks. Nearly incapacitated by their halos, I shuffle forward, too sick to resist, let alone fight back. My brain feels thick, feverish as I struggle to make it work, at the same time willing myself not to pass out.

  Scream, I think to myself. Scream, you idiot!

  By now, I’m in the small side yard between two houses obscuring me from public view. Which is very bad. The hostile energy thrumming through the group takes tangible form as everything slows down. It’s nearly an out of body experience. High in the sky overhead I notice a dark cumulus cloud as it drifts in front of the sun, blocking out the light. The resulting gloom reminds me that I need to do something, before the light is swallowed up for good. But what?

  The blazing sun returns, blinding me as my consciousness snaps back to the present. I suck a deep, ragged breath into my chest, readying myself to scream. The action signals my attacker that I’m intending to fight back. His hand comes up again my windpipe. Hard. A line of crushing pain, like the impact of a lead pipe, explodes across my neck. Nausea makes me need to hurl but I’m pinned against the wall of a house and I can’t breathe—can’t get any air at all!

  Frantically, I claw at his hands until he barks, “Hold her.” More hands brace me. Spots dance in front of my eyes and I feel sleepy. With relief, I realize I want to go to sleep. Everything will be okay, I think, if I can just sleep. The kid in front of me dissolves as everything fades away. For the first time in my life, I’m happy to embrace the darkness.

  Several things happen all at once. The sun emerges from behind the cloud, illuminating everything in brilliant light. As I squint against the glow, the kid lets go of my windpipe. The others release me as well and I drop to the ground, clutching at my throat and dragging in ragged breaths of air.

  Two seconds pass.

  Around me is noise, commotion my oxygen deprived brain can’t process. Finally I’m able to sift through the sounds. Fighting. I hear an unfamiliar voice roar, “If you touch her again, I’ll kill you!” I believe the voice. He means it.

  I hear the sounds of shuffling. Low moans and curses. Sounds of retreat.

  The roaring voice is gentler now. Laced with concern, it asks, “Are you all right?”

  Surprised, I surmise it’s talking to me so I manage a nod. I can hear the voice hovering over me but when I open my eyes I only see light. Blinding, brilliant-white light radiates around the voice. Blinking rapidly against the bright onslaught, I strain to focus on the speaker. In the middle of the light is the most exquisite boy I’ve ever seen. His face is both achingly perfect and terrifyingly severe.

  You’re beautiful! The words slip through my mind and past my lips before I can censure them. Surprise, followed closely by relief, registers in his eyes. Then he smiles at me—a joyous, lustrous smile that crashes over me. I should be having a nervous breakdown or something, but somehow the boy fills me, keeping all other reactions at bay.

  I am swallowed by the sun.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Thank goodness you’re all right.” There’s a tiny hitch in his voice that I don’t think I’m supposed to hear.

  Holy crap! The boy with the voice kneels over me. He’s so luminous my eyes water as I painfully squint up at him in awe. He makes a small noise between a gasp and a chuckle, and shifts slightly. It no longer hurts to look at him. Now that he’s not silhouetted against the glaring sun, I realize he’s not the angel I nearly mistook him for—just a boy. A heartbreakingly gorgeous one.

  His tousled, golden hair captures the shimmering light as he assesses me with celestial blue eyes. Falling into their depths, I encounter intelligence and humor. I brush against his soul, as his halo grows supernaturally bright. Once again, I drown in his radiance. Just as I am lost, he blinks and breaks the spell.

  I continue to stare, utterly dumbfounded. He’s so beautiful. Sandy-blonde hair with wheat-colored streaks frames his chiseled features: high cheekbones and a square jaw accentuated by sun-kissed skin, Caribbean-blue eyes fringed with long lashes and a full, kissable mouth. That last embarrassing observation has my tongue darting reflexively between my own lips.

  As he reaches out his hand to help me up, I repress the urge to weep and wonder if I’m in shock. But I don’t feel like I’m in shock. Just overwhelmed by the most perfect boy I’ve ever seen. When I place my hand in his, electricity—tingling warmth—shoots up my arm.

  He continues to gaze down at me, a small smile quirking his lips. But since I only just met him, I don’t know what that particular expression means.

  My stomach flutters anyway.

  I’m hyper-aware of my body and its strange reactions as he helps me to stand. Once on my feet, I sway and the boy grips my waist to steady me before letting go.

  I try to thank him, uttering, “Beautiful.”

  It comes out as a hoarse croak and I suddenly realize it’s not the first time I’ve said that word out loud to him. “Uh—I mean, thank you,” I stammer, feeling my face grow red hot. My abused throat burns. “Thanks.”

  “I think I should walk you home. Under the circumstances.” He says it mildly but in a way that tells me the subject’s not open for debate. Not that I would argue anyway. His voice is commanding; deep, smooth and lyrical. Hypnotic.

  Dumbly, I nod, my head bobbing up and down like a dashboard dog. “Uh, okay.”

  He slings his backpack over one arm then reaches for mine, shouldering it as well. My instinct is to run away, protect myself from this handsome boy who must have some kind of ulterior motive—but his shining halo doesn’t lie. His halo assures me he’s completely good.

  “I’m Gabriel,” he says. His easy smile reveals pearly teeth.

  I don’t smile back. I can’t. My whole body’s trembling. I glance down at my feet because it hurts too much to look at him. “I’m Alexia.”

  Damn! Why did I say that? I’m opening my mouth to amend my introduction, when I hear my name coming from his mesmerizing voice. “Alexia.”

  It’s like it comes from somewhere deep inside him, some place familiar and warm.

  Chancing a glance at him, I’m captured by his heavenly eyes, tumbling back into their depths with little resistance. He whispers again, “Alexia.”


  Now, he shivers.

  Finding our surroundings suddenly fascinating, he breaks the intensity between us. I watch his Adam’s apple bob enticingly as he swallows and resist the urge to touch the spot, to run my fingers over his smooth, soft skin. Instead, I clench my fists to my side and wait as he composes himself.

  “Ready?” Gabriel places a gentle hand on the small of my back. We both tense at the contact, and it occurs to me he’s as unused to touching as I am to being touched. Not trusting my voice, I nod.

  “Lead the way.” He sounds restrained, but I can’t read him well enough to figure out precisely why. We walk stiffly, in complete silence. The pressure of his hand on my back is so light I can’t be sure it’s really there. Except the spot tingles.

  As we walk the three remaining blocks to my temporary home, Gabriel stays close. It feels surreal but surprisingly okay. In front of Kate and Steven’s, I reluctantly slow, then halt. When I turn to thank him, he’s so close that our lips are just inches apart.

  He smells of evergreens in June, and the smoke from a hardwood fire. I’m reminded of the only time I ever went camping in the mountains. The sensation of being one with nature, free of my burdens and in tune with a Majestic Creator.

  Neither one of us moves.

  Gabriel’s eyes slide away from my mouth to hold my gaze. “Are your parents home?”

  “Foster parents.” I correct him before thinking better of it. My jaw sets as I take a small step backwards. Now will come the questions about my sad little life, why my parents gave me up, if I remember them—I don’t, by the way, not really—and the resulting look of pity. Tensing for the inevitable, I wait.

  But Gabriel’s pity doesn’t come. The expression on his face is worse than curiosity or sympathy. There is no judgment in his gaze, only compassion. Acceptance.

  Butterflies pirouette inside my stomach as he leans toward me. He lifts his hand as if to touch my skin. In anticipation, I swallow then wince because the motion hurts. His attention shifts to my neck. The way he scowls at my damaged throat makes me suspect it appears even worse than it feels—if such a thing’s possible. He lets his hand drop and his lower lip juts out slightly in annoyance. Whatever connection we’d shared is broken.