Acropolis (2 page)

"Is she that dangerous?" I ask.

Delilah gives me a sympathetic smile.

"No, not Emma."

Chapter 2

Emma

I was dying.

The doctors told me I was an aberration,
afflicted with an illness that had never been documented. I was
then all of eleven, a thin wisp of a girl with a dark braid down my
back, my face ashen with horror. I wasn't supposed to live out the
year.

But that was then. I have been dying now for
six years, and I am constantly under the scrutiny of medical
experts and therapists. It is a miracle, they say, that I have
lived as long as I have, but I am beginning to believe they are
wrong. Maybe I wasn't meant to die, only live in misery for the
rest of my life.

"It's going to be fine," my mother
whispers.

We are sitting in an elegant, overdone
sitting area waiting to see yet another specialist, and I know my
face is pinched, not with nervousness but with disgust. No one is
going to be able to help me. I am beyond saving. But my mother is
desperate. I am her only child, adopted when I was three months
old. Two years after the adoption, her husband, my adopted father,
was diagnosed with lung cancer. Four months later, he passed away
while hooked to machines pumping him with morphine. My mother has
never fully recovered.

"They say optimism prolongs life," my mother
chirps as she flips through a homeopathic magazine. When all
treatments failed, mom turned to natural and experimental
medicines. I am sick of being sick.

"Maybe it's time to let go," I mumble.

My mother gives me a sharp look, her once
young face lined by years of stress. Her auburn hair is pulled back
from her face and pinned up at the back of her head. She wears
glasses perched on the tip of her nose. They are only for reading,
but she rarely takes them off. The spectacles are made up of
red-rimmed frames that clash badly with my mother's baggy khaki
pants and tucked, blue silk shirt. She has lost weight.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear
that."

I hadn't expected any less.

"Emma Chase!"

My mother and I stand as one, although I
tower over her by a foot as we saunter over to the large
African-American woman who has called my name. I like her
instantly. She has on red scrubs with a name tag shaped like
kissing lips, and she smells like cotton candy. The tag says her
name is Grace.

"Hi, sweetheart! You Emma?"

I nod shyly. Emma is such an unassuming name,
very plain and utterly unromantic, unless one is a fan of Jane
Austen. Which my mother is. But the name suits me.

I am the epitome of "almost" but "not quite."
I am almost, but not quite six feet tall. I have almost, but not
quite black hair, ranging somewhere in the very dark brown
vicinity. I am almost, but not quite too thin. And I have almost,
but not quite brown eyes. My mother calls them "russet." But I am
utterly offended by that particular color description. My eyes, in
my opinion, are the one sure thing about me. They are amber.

Grace is chattering in front of me, and I
paste on my best "I'm sure I will be delighted by the facility"
smile. I have the "new doctor" routine down to a science. I am
going to be seeing two different professionals today, both part of
the same hospital.

Grace leads me to a scale, and I step onto it
without her asking me to, even though I can give her my stats
without her needing to check. I am 125 pounds with a temperature of
103.0.

Grace sticks a thermometer just inside my ear
and then gives me a look before writing the numbers down carefully.
It is a look I know well. The constant fever is part of the reason
the doctors are so baffled. I have been living with a body
temperature ranging from 103.0 to 105.0 for years now with no
physical side effects. Point blank, I am abnormal.

"Are you on any medications?" Grace asks as
she leads us into an empty room.

I am immediately impressed. The room is large
with thick, mocha-colored carpet and caramel walls. There is a dark
brown leather sofa in front of another smaller chair of the same
material. Abstract portraits of varying swirls of color are
interspersed with several diplomas on the wall. The color scheme
has me craving a caramel frappucino.

"I have a list," my mother answers, and I
turn my attention back to the nurse as she motions for us to sit.
We stay standing.

Mom takes a small memo pad out of her purse,
flips to the first page, and hands it to Grace. The nurse starts
scribbling furiously on her clipboard.

"And these meds are having no effect on the
fever?"

"I can't keep them down," I interrupt. It is
yet another reason I am freakishly abnormal. My body seems to
reject medications. They make me violently ill. Even Tylenol.

My mother gives me a pained look. Grace just
nods and scribbles more notes. She smiles at me before looking at
my mother, her eyes encouraging.

"Dr. Reed will be with you in a moment. I'll
send this paperwork downstairs for her physical evaluation."

Mom nods, her eyes taking in the room
anxiously as Grace exits. I place an arm across Mom's
shoulders.

"Looks like therapists have better digs than
the docs with the stethoscopes. You think she uses the couch for
naps or to seduce really hot patients?"

"Emma Renee Chase!"

Her voice is high and scolding, but I don't
miss the smile she tries to hide. I want to punch the air
triumphantly. Mom doesn't smile nearly as much as she should.

"You look ten years younger when you do
that," I murmur.

Mom grins crookedly, using her finger to push
her glasses further up her nose just as a knock sounds on the door.
The smile vanishes instantly.

"Emma Chase?" Dr. Reed says dully as she
enters the room.

I turn toward the voice and grimace. While
Grace had been a cheerful, encouraging woman, the doctor now making
her way across the room is the female version of Attila the Hun.
One of the Diplomas on the wall introduces her as Helen Reed. I
mentally nickname her "Helga." She is the size of a football player
with a huge Grecian nose and large beady, un-waxed eyes. It isn't
pretty.

“So, how are we today, Emma?” Helga asks as
she steps in front of us, her gaze peering unobtrusively over a
pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

I shrug. Helga glances from me to my
mother.

"Can I see Emma alone a moment?"

This startles us both. Mom knows I'm
not good at conversing with people I'm not familiar with. I am,
quite simply, terrified of anything I don't have control over. My
fears are part of the reason I'm here. Another symptom, the doctors
say. Extreme paranoia. I have developed what they like to call a
hyper-phobic disability. Which means, and I digress, that I am
literally terrified of everything. Literally. Everything. Spiders,
the dark, fire, heights, closed spaces, snakes, . . .
everything
.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea . . ."
Mom says as Helga starts urging her toward the door.

I don't even have time to argue before the
door clicks shut in my mother's stunned face. Helga turns to
me.

"I have reviewed your records, Ms. Chase, and
I am not entirely convinced you are as sick as you would have
people believe."

I am at a loss for words, my heart beginning
to pound as I wipe my sweating palms down the side of my dark blue
jeans. The long sleeve green cardigan I have on suddenly feels too
hot. I know my temperature is rising.

"M-m'am?" I stutter.

Helga's eyes narrow.

"The fever I can't figure out, but according
to my charts, your physical tests have all been outstanding. Maybe
some sort of neurological disease then? And yet, even with the
fever, your mental facilities seem fine.

"D-doc. . ."

She ignores me.

"As for the paranoia . . ."

I am instantly aware of her intentions, and I
squeal as she reaches for the light switch on the wall next to the
door. There are no windows in the room. If this is a test, it is a
bad one.

"No!"

The room goes pitch black. What comes next is
not my fault. The screams that fill the room no longer just my
own.

Helga pulls at me. I am wrapped around
her. How I got there is beyond me, but I can't let go. I
won't
let go.

Distantly, I hear banging on the door. Helga
struggles against me, yelling for help, and shoves me backward so
the people in the hall can enter without any resistance. Lights
suddenly flood the room.

Helga shouldn't have turned off the lights!
Otherwise, they never would have found me there, bear hugging Dr.
Reed while frantically screaming and shedding tears of pure
unadulterated blood.

Chapter 3

Conor

I was on my way, by taxi, to the airport in
Paris, France when the call comes through. The number is a familiar
one, and I groan.

"I just left the Council, Will . . ."

"And I just got called in to assist you.
We've got trouble," my cousin interrupts.

My foot presses against the floorboard of the
Peugeot 406, an unconscious braking effort on my part. I tap the
seat in front of me, using my hand to signal the driver. The taxi
slows and pulls to the side of the road amidst blaring horns.

"Define trouble."

There is a lot of noise on the other end of
the line, and I recognize my aunt's irritated voice. Will is my
first cousin, a year younger than me, and has just been accepted
into the Inner Circle of Gargoyles. As a Guardian, I had ranked
higher, but now . . . .

"The mark is in danger."

It takes a moment for his words to
register. The mark?
My
mark?
The taxi driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I open
the car door, lowering my voice as I step outside.

"Emma Chase?"

Will grunts.

"No, the Pope, you imbecile."

I clench my fist. I hear my aunt yelling now
in the background. She's agitated. It doesn't take long for me to
realize Will is gearing up to fly, his mother trying her best to
prepare him for the worst. Chills creep up my spine.

"Look, Will, this is my job. If there's
trouble, they need to send in a Guardian . . ."

"There's no time, Con. They need someone now.
And I'm the closest to the location. Forget the plane. You need to
take flight."

I reach into my pocket, grab enough money to
pay the driver, throw it into the taxi and walk away. I'm not used
to dealing with foreign currency yet, and I'm pretty sure I just
grossly overpaid the man, but I am beyond distracted and it's
Council money anyway. My eyes instinctively search the buildings
around me. I need a good place to take off. Flying in daylight is
risky, but gargoyles have an advantage. We are born with the
ability to foil radar.

"Explain," I order as I walk toward a
dilapidated building with little foot traffic. It will have to do.
Will hesitates on the other end of the line.

"Hell if I know. I wasn't told much. She's
been caught in a compromising position, and she has been admitted
into the hospital. You've seen her records. You tell me."

"Shit. Where is she?"

Will gives me the name of a hospital in
Atlanta, Georgia. According to her records, Emma is from Illinois.
She is a long way from home. Her mother is determined to exhaust
all medical avenues. She wants to save her daughter. No one can
fault her for that. I had been ordered to Georgia where I was
supposed to catch the same return flight to Illinois as Emma and
her mother. The rest was up to me. I hate when plans change.

"Look, just watch the facility. Don't go in
without me. I'm on my way."

I start to scale the building as Will
protests in my ear. I ignore him and end the call abruptly, pulling
an ear piece out of my pocket and shoving it into my ear. The next
call I make is to the Director.

"I didn't think it'd take you long," Gibson
says, his voice strained.

"Will isn't a Guardian."

I say the words angrily. Will is family.
Being related to a colleague isn't unusual in the world of
gargoyles. Gargoyles marry gargoyles. Their children are gargoyles.
It is just the way our people work. It is our duty. It is why each
family is represented by a crest. Very rarely does a gargoyle
deviate from this plan. I am one of the exceptional few, having
fallen for someone unsuitable. Worse yet, it had been a mark. Hence
my demotion. And even though every gargoyle takes his or her place
in the Inner Circle when they come of age, I know Will isn't ready.
He's only been in service a few months.

"Neither are you, Reinhardt. Not
anymore."

"But I've been trained for it," I argue.

Gibson sighs, the sound carrying across the
line.

"We don't plan for this to get out of hand.
We only need an Extraction."

"Extractions go wrong," I point out.

I am way out of line, questioning authority,
but I'm apparently getting good at being demoted anyway so why stop
now.

"Conor . . ."

"Why Will?" I protest.

"He won't be alone. We have Roach working
from the inside."

I have a hard time refraining from being
completely and utterly insubordinate. Roach is a jackass.

"How bad is the situation?"

Gibson is quiet a moment.

"Not bad . . . unusual. The girl has
developed a new symptom."

I am on the roof of the building now.

"Symptom?"

"The doctors call it haemolacria.
Crying blood. It's usually indicative of an underlying condition,
tumor, head injury, etc, but you and I both know she doesn't have a
medical condition. What we
don't
know is what this means. If it's a new ability she doesn't
have control over then . . . we fear she's broadcast her position
unintentionally."