Acropolis (11 page)

This sentence doesn't comfort me. I am
puzzled, and I am tired. I have gone from a carton of mint ice
cream with a six foot gargoyle to a horrible dream of drowning only
to wake up faced with an imp. A hysterical imp.

"What does that have to do with me?" I ask
carefully.

Deidra pauses.

"Seriously?" she asks."You don't know?"

I shake my head, and she laughs again.

"You, Emma Chase, are a bad ass. It's good to
be your friend."

Chapter 15

Conor

"Conor?"

The voice is enough to make me groan, and I
pull the pillow over my head in an attempt to drown her out.
Dealing with Rachel Gibson in the a.m. is like chewing on razor
blades.

"Yo, Reinhardt!"

Rachel pulls the covers off the bed. It's a
good thing I don't sleep naked, but Rachel wouldn't have cared if I
did. We've been there done that, in the field only and only while
learning to shift without ripping our clothes.

"I'm having a nightmare," I complain, my eyes
still closed. Rachel snorts.

"How bad do you want it to get?" she
asks.

That's good enough for me. I sit up, covering
my eyes to shield them from the sunlight streaming in from a nearby
window. Rachel is fully dressed in a long sleeve pink tee and blue
jeans, her hands on her hips. Solid colors. Nothing extravagant.
There is no dress code at the Acropolis but no one wears clothes
they care about. They are too easily damaged.

"Is it true?" Rachel asks.

I am in that wonderful halfway world between
sleeping and wakefulness where nothing really makes sense.

"Depends on what you mean by true?" I say
carefully, pinching myself on the arm. I really need coffee. What
time is it anyway?

"Are you going to be the Demon's
Guardian?"

This gets my attention. I run a hand through
my hair and look at Rachel.

"Why? Did your father say anything?"

Rachel's jaw drops, and her eyes narrow.

"Oh, my God! You seriously petitioned for the
job?" she asks. "And here I thought you were smart."

I move to the side of the bed. From the way
the sun shines in through the window, I am guessing it is around
noon. This is maybe five hours of sleep. It isn't enough.

"You got a point, Rach? Cause you have about
zero point five seconds to get to it before I throw you out of this
room."

It is none of her business what choices I
make.

"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble
she is going to cause?"

I sigh. Rachel is just getting started.

"Rach, I don't think
she
even knows what kind of trouble
she is going to cause.'

"And you still want to guard her?"

I take a deep breath, using the momentum to
propel myself out of the bed, heading for a small bathroom off to
the side of the room.

"It's precisely the reason
why
I want to guard her."

There's a sink just inside the bathroom door,
and I turn it on, letting the cold water run a moment before
splashing it in my face. It isn't coffee, but it helps.

"There's no other reason?" Rachel asks.

The tone of her voice captures my attention,
and I turn to her, my back now against the sink.

"What are you getting at, Rachel?"

"Are interested in her?"

I stare because it's the only thing I know to
do. As much as I'd like this to be a joke, I know she isn't
playing.

"You're seriously asking me this?"

Rachel shrugs.

"You're on the rebound, Con. We all know it.
After Dayton . . ."

I'm beyond the snapping point. I'm in the
"you just seriously pissed me off" realm of being.

"None of your business, Rachel. None of your
fucking business."

She doesn't look the least bit fazed.

"You just got reinstated to Guardian, and you
want to risk it this quickly?"

Rachel says this softly, and I realize
her intent isn't to be cruel. She's genuinely worried. Rachel isn't
a bad girl. Annoyingly blunt, but not bad. She just says out loud
what other people think. And what she's saying now, a lot of
people
will
be thinking. I
lean an arm against the bathroom door.

"What has your father said, Rach?

Rachel's jaw tightens, and I suddenly know
what Gibson's response to my petition was. .

"He's going to let me take the
assignment."

I can hear the triumph in my own voice. She
doesn't tell me yes, but I know he is.

"What are you trying to prove?" Rachel asks
softly. "She isn't Dayton."

I push away from the door, shoving past her
into the bedroom. Durand has had clothes sent up to the room, and
I'm glad to see they belong to me. Most gargoyles keep clothes at
various locations around the globe. There are at least eight
different places sporting my attire, and I've long since forgotten
which places have what.

"I don't know her, Rach. I don't know what
you're getting at, but this assignment has nothing to do with
romance."

Rachel shoots me a disbelieving glare as I
pull a plain white t-shirt over my head. I hold a pair of blue
jeans in my hand, but I refuse to change in front of her. It
doesn't matter how immodest we gargoyles are, I put my foot down
when it comes to changing my pants in front of the girl my family
wishes I'd marry some day. It doesn't matter how many times we've
seen each other unclothed during training. Most of those moments
were accidents. I have no intention of ever getting "intentional"
in front of Rachel.

"It's always about romance with you,
Con."

I don't argue with her. Until Dayton, I have
been known to play the field. I'm not as pure as my mother wishes I
was. I may be a gargoyle, I may follow a pretty strict code of
conduct, but I'm also human. And I'm human enough to admit that
losing my father, having a mother who spends a lot of time saving
other people's lives, and then having to live up to a legacy that
is impossible to live up to means I found relief in other avenues.
I made my own reputation. I'm not always proud of it, but I do have
to live with it.

"My priorities have changed, Rach. The only
interest I have in the girl is making sure she doesn't kill herself
or anyone else."

Rachel makes her way to the bedroom door, her
hand pausing on the knob.

"It's against the rules to date a Demon."

I don't look at her, my eyes trained on the
jeans in my hand instead.

"I just want to be her Guardian," I say.

"She's stronger than you," Rachel points
out.

This is something I already know.

"She's stronger than all of us. It's what
makes her so dangerous."

I hear the door open, but I still don't look
up.

"Be careful, Con."

The door clicks shut behind Rachel, and the
only thing I want to do is go back to bed. I pull a cell phone out
instead. It's lying with my new clothes, a replacement to the one
ruined by the sea. Gargoyles are in constant need of communication.
I have voice mail. It's from Director Gibson.

"You got the job, Reinhardt. Don't screw it
up."

What's left unsaid speaks louder than
words.

Chapter 16

Emma

I don't feel the least bit comfortable.

"It's a little on the short side," Deidra
says, her lips pinched to contain her amusement. I'm not sure how I
feel about her yet, but I can't seem to get rid of her.

"Short is an understatement I think," I say
as I finger the long sleeve black tee I'm wearing. I'm tall for a
girl, and every time I lift my arms, I can see my belly button.

"The jeans are better," Marion adds, her
cheeks flushed. I can tell she wants to feel more comfortable
around me, but she still reeks of fear. I can't figure out what's
so terrifying.

"They are
boy's
jeans," Deidra says petulantly.

I am embarrassed by this fact, and I keep my
mouth shut.

"Boyfriend jeans are fairly popular. No one
will notice," Marion says defensively.

My heart is beating so fast, I can barely
breathe. My throat still hurts, but the pain has lessened
considerably. With each new step, I feel my hands shake, and I
clasp them as tightly as I can to hide the problem. But the imp
notices. She is more observant than I'd like to admit.

"They need you trained as quickly as
possible. I don't think they'd throw you to the wolves this quickly
if they didn't," Deidra says sympathetically. Marion slaps Deidra
on the back.

"You aren't helping her any."

"Well, she needs to know," Deidra argues.

We are almost to the main building, having
left a large cottage behind us. The Chateau before us is huge,
grey-white stone and impressive. We are surrounded by gardens and
low stone walls. I pause on the lawn.

"The wolves?" I ask. Deidra's words make me
nervous.

Marion sighs.

"You are the daughter of Enepsigos. She is
one of the most powerful Demons in existence. You are going to be
automatically disliked."

Her words are blunt but soft. I just stare,
my cheeks heating. Deidra slips her hand into mine. I am too
ashamed to pull away.

"It's not you, Emma. Don't take it
personally. Demons, even hybrids, are power hungry. No matter how
much we want to pretend we aren't, we are. Other than the gargoyles
training us, there is not a single student here that doesn't have a
Demonic parent. You won't be judged for that."

"Then why the dislike?" I ask.

"Because they will be jealous," Marion
answers.

I am at a loss for words. I don't feel
powerful. I don't even feel like a Demon. I feel scared. I feel
lonely. I feel like crying. But I don't. I don't cry because tears
won't help anything, and they will be tinged with blood. Crying is
something I have to learn to control. Crying is something I have to
learn to do without.

"Come," Marion says. "You need to eat. We all
do. What you do after that will depend on your Guardian."

We walk slowly again, my feet dragging as the
door of the Acropolis draws nearer.

"My Guardian?" I ask.

Deidra's hand is still in mine, and she tugs
on it gently.

"We all have one. It's a gargoyle assigned to
make sure we don't lose control."

"That's not entirely true, Deidra," Marion
says firmly. She stops at the door, her hand resting on the wood as
she turns to face me.

"As Guardians, a gargoyle's first duty is to
protect the innocent, the defenseless. We stand between evil and
those evil attempts to harm." Marion is stoic, her voice even. Her
words sound memorized. "But, at the Acropolis, the Guardians
assigned to the students here are given two objectives: Guard and
judge."

The word "judge" sends chills down my
spine.

"Judge?"

Deidra snorts.

"As the children of Demons and mortals, we
are given leniency. We aren't killed because one of our parents is
human, innocent. It means we have the capacity for good. But only
the capacity. If we prove to be one of the so called "good"
hybrids, we are assigned a job among the gargoyles or another group
that protects humankind," Deidra says dryly.

I know the answer to my next question, but I
ask it anyway.

"And if we fail?"

Marion pushes the door open, her face solemn
as she gestures to the hall beyond.

"Some of us won't make it out of the
Acropolis," Deidra answers, her hand slipping from mine as she
steals into the Chateau. I don't move, my eyes blank. My body is
tight with fear, more fear than I have ever felt before in my life.
I am being faced with Demons both figuratively and literally, and I
am afraid of failure.

"You are a good person, Emma. You have
nothing to worry about."

I hear Marion's voice, but I don't
acknowledge it. I can't quit thinking about what I've already done.
I have nearly killed five gargoyles. My memory may be fuzzy, but
Deidra hasn't had any trouble filling me in. By the time Marion
presented me with clothes to wear to the main building, I knew
exactly why Deidra thought I was "bad ass."

"You are a good person," Marion repeats, her
hand touching me tentatively. Her words are comforting, but her
actions, her expressions are fearful, unsure.

"You don't know that," I whisper as I finally
step forward.

Deidra is immediately next to me. For the
first time, I see uncertainty on her impish face. There is laughter
in the Acropolis. The building is massive, the ceilings vaulted
with exposed wooden beams and stone floors that appear ancient,
untouched. There are massive fireplaces in the hall. No furniture.
A stone gargoyle sits at the foot of a spiral stone staircase.
There is a floor-to-ceiling mirror on one side of the room and
weapons hanging along the wall. I don't ask why.

"Make them like you," I mumble to
myself. It is something my mother is always telling me.
Just make them like you,
Emma
.

"That's not possible," Deidra mutters as we
approach a large entryway. Beyond it is a room lined with three
massive mahogany tables, chairs filled with students ranging in
age. They are an eclectic mix. Some are young, maybe no more than
ten years of age, while others look older than me. And they are
loud. I am bombarded by sound.

Along the walls, men and women stand, many of
them in their late twenties. Only a few look to be in their teens.
One of them is Conor Reinhardt, his arms folded as he leans against
the wall facing the room. Will is next to him. Rachel isn't far
from Will. These are the gargoyles. Some of them Guardians. Our
judge and jury. I am feeling decidedly less than perfect.