Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) (23 page)

Emery broke through the crowd of boys and stood next to Jared, preparing to intervene.

“Sure. Later.” Chad stepped away, giving the impression that he was leaving, and then swung his arm around.

My mind slowed his fist, and my mouth formed into a scream as I took in everything during that millisecond: Chad’s fist, Emery not making a move to block the blow he saw coming, and Jared seeing the sucker punch too late.

In my mind’s eyes, the beast lurched from the recesses, howling like a savage and straining at the chain gripped in my hand. I felt the fury in every fiber of my being, and heard the cry of animal instinct to feed the violence.

Chad’s fist connected with Jared’s jaw, thrusting his head to the side.

I stumbled backward, fighting an internal battle—one I would win.

No,
I commanded, exerting every scrap of willpower I possessed to resist the powerful impulse to tear off the porch and attack Chad. The shadowy embodiment of my feral nature dissolved into blackness.
Victory
, I thought, as my scream synchronized with Miriam’s.

Jared took the blow and turned his head back to Chad slowly. He smirked. Chad kept his fists up, ready to fight.

“That’s your free one,” Jared said.

Arms at his side, he stepped forward so he and Chad were chest-to-chest, nose-to-nose. Displaying no fear, Jared stuck his chin out ever so slightly, inviting Chad to throw a punch.

Unflinching, they stared one another down. The swift intake of breath from the other boys, Miriam’s alarmed squeaks, and random urban background chatter were the only sounds that joined the wild pounding of my heart.

Chad’s eyes dropped. “Some other time. I’m outnumbered,” he explained, as if he could fool us. He avoided eye contact with the other boys as he turned away and strutted off in the opposite direction of his house.

The boy was scared spitless.

When he’d put enough distance between himself and the other boys, Chad pivoted around. Smugness, anger, and embarrassment mingled on his face. “Phillips,” he shouted, walking backward, “she’s all yours.”

He said this as if he had gotten the last word.

Before Emery or Jared could retaliate, Chad swung around and continued his cowardly retreat, throwing his shoulders back in empty bravado.

I wondered about the point of that, especially because I belonged to
no one
.

Zach was watching Chad with obvious disgust. “Jared, why didn’t you kick the crap out of him?”

Jared shrugged and glanced at me. Heat flooded my cheeks, and I quickly looked down.

Nate clasped Jared’s shoulder, regarding him with admiration. “Thanks, dude. Now, I say,
let’s fight
.”

The boys whooped and made their way back up the walk, joking, pushing, and harassing one another. The confrontation and Jared’s valor had obviously triggered some testosterone. I was furious at my cheeks for burning crimson as the boys filed past Miriam and me into the house, and at my body for the trembling, the rush of adrenaline, and the subtle, shameful disappointment I always felt when tempering the beast. A sliver of me still howled for blood and longed for the freedom I knew I would feel if I were to give in completely to the savage inside.

Something I will never, ever do . . .

Jared reached me. I peeked up at him and smiled shyly.

His lips curled at the corners. The left side of his jaw where Chad had sucker-punched him pulsed red and already showed signs of swelling.

My smile flipped. “Your jaw! Do you want ice?”

“Thanks, Cassy, but no worries.” He ducked into the house.

“Nate!” I shouted. “Get Jared some ice.”

Emery chuckled. I swiveled my head to him and glared. “You said you were going to take care of things,” I accused, bringing my hands to my hips. They were trembling from the spiked adrenaline, so I quickly moved them behind my back.

Emery had the gall to grin. “What makes you think I didn’t?” he replied and stepped through the doorway, leaving me to ponder.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He smiled and closed the door.

“Get Jared an ice pack,” I bellowed at the door, baffled. The boy was a riddle.

“Look at me,” Miriam said. “I’m shaking like a leaf—”

My hands flopped against my back like beached fish.

“I need to sit.” Miriam plopped down on the top step.

I sat next to her, numb and dazed. The last five minutes had been surreal. I drew in a deep breath and asked on the exhale, “Did all of that just happen?”

“You mean, you sucking face with Chad Dunham? Uh-huh.”

I pinched her.

She laughed, then grew serious. “Are you sad it wasn’t Emery?”

I looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“You know—are you sad it was Jared who defended your honor, and not Emery?”

“Oh, my gosh! Don’t make me laugh. Defending my
honor
?” I chuckled, thoroughly confused. “Why would I be sad?”

“Because, you know,” Miriam said, sheepish.

“No. What?”

“Oh, you’re going to make me confess I’m a slimeball, aren’t you?” She drummed my upper arm with her fists. “I know how you
really
feel about Emery. I read your poem about him in your nightstand.”

“My poem?” I recalled my sad attempt at a poem and burst into laughter. “Oh my gosh. I’m so embarrassed. That’s why you suddenly lost interest in Emery? You thought
his
eyes were like
pools of chocolate
?” My laughter abruptly ceased as Miriam’s sacrifice dawned on me. “I love you, Miriam.” I threw my arms around her. “You gave up Emery for me.”

“Well, yeah.” She yanked my hair. “I’m not letting some boy come between me and my best friend, no matter how hot he is.”

I pulled back to look at her, touched beyond what words could express. Emery wasn’t just
some boy
to her. Yet she was willing to give him up for me.

“You’re making me cry,” I told her, and I wasn’t kidding.

Miriam’s eyes misted, too. “Stop!” she wailed, shaking her fists in protest. “Now you’re making
me
cry.”

“But I’m also about to make you very, very happy. Those
eyes like chocolate pools
—” I paused to snicker.

“Tell me!” Miriam punched my arm.

“They’re not
Emery’s eyes.” I lowered my voice just in case. “They’re Jared’s.”

“What? Jared
Wells
?”

“Shhhhhh,” I cautioned her, bringing a finger to my smiling lips. “Yes, Jared Wells. I’ve liked him forever.”

She stared at me, absorbing the information. A dazzling smile broke out over her face. “Yes! Emery is mine—mine, mine, mine,” Miriam sang, moving her upper body to the rhythm of her snapping fingers.

I laughed so hard that I almost fell off the step.

“Mine, mine, mine, mine. All mine. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—” A cross look followed her maniacal laugh. “Hey! Why didn’t you tell me you liked Jared?” she demanded. “Not cool. Not cool at all. But. Oh. My.
Gosh
!” Miriam shook me. “How perfect is this? The boy you’re in love with took a punch for you!”

“Shhhhhhh,” was all I could get out, too giddy to even speak. It was true. Jared had taken a punch for me while defending my honor.

“Okay,” Miriam whispered, already conspiring. “Fess up about Jared. Tell me
every
gory detail.”

And I did.

Eighteen

Dire Miscalculation

Saturday afternoon evolved into one of the strangest I’d ever had, which is saying a lot, considering that I’d fought a tiger and a supervillainess in an afternoon.

After Fight Club, Emery and I went over to his house to make lunch. Then, on a whim, we decided to have a
Doctor Who
marathon. Much to my surprise—but not Emery’s—Mr. Phillips was also a
Doctor Who
fan and joined us.

I couldn’t have told you what happened in any of the six episodes we watched, I was so rattled by the man relaxing in the recliner, munching on popcorn, like he had nothing better to do than watch television all day. Every so often, Emery would jam his elbow into my ribs, subtly signaling me to watch Matt Smith and not his father.

Around six thirty, Mr. Phillips announced he was hungry and was going to order Chinese food, and invited me to stay for dinner. I accepted, blushing and getting tongue-tied in the process, which didn’t come across as suspicious at all. I was pretty sure Mr. Phillips thought me an odd duck, so making a fool of myself would come across as totally normal.

Mr. Phillips and Emery discussed
Doctor Who
, while Serena and I slurped down chow mein. Her thoughts were elsewhere, probably mulling over the microbes that had invaded my body, whereas I concentrated on reminding myself to chew and swallow. Getting food past the nervous lump in my throat was no easy task.

Mr. Phillips was reaching for another eggroll when he snapped his fingers like he had just remembered something. “Serena, I forgot to tell you—” He paused, waiting for her to look up at him so he knew she was listening.

My gaze riveted on him, I chewed faster. Emery kicked me under the table.

“Serena, dear,” Mr. Phillips tried again.

Serena looked up. “Did you say something, Gavin?”

Mr. Phillips winked at Emery. “I forgot to tell you, I’m meeting a former client for drinks at eleven thirty.”

My spine stiffened, and I willed my expression to appear natural.

“Would you like to join us?” he finished.

I could have answered for Serena. She responded the way we all knew she would.

“You want me to join you and this former client for drinks?” she repeated, as though needing confirmation that she had heard the ridiculous invitation correctly.

“I know it’s a little late. He’s meeting me after another meeting.”

“You want
me
to join you and this former client for drinks at eleven thirty this evening?” she said again.

Despite the situation, a smile tugged at my mouth.

“If you’d like,” Mr. Phillips said.

“I have nothing in common with this person,” Serena protested as if she knew who this person was. Which she didn’t, of course—since he didn’t exist.

You boldfaced liar.
I captured a rice noodle between chopsticks and shoved it in my mouth.
Clever.

“Why would I want to go?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love. I was only asking,” Mr. Phillips teased in a perfect English accent.

I was stunned to hear this accent coming from his mouth. The fact that it sounded so authentic was unnerving. If I’d heard his voice over the phone, there was no way I would have recognized him.

Serena frowned at her husband. “You know I disapprove of idioms.”

Emery and I lost it. How could we not?

Ignoring our laughter, Serena said to her amused husband, “I’ll have to decline, but you enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll try, dear,” Mr. Phillips replied, pleased as punch.

And don’t wait up,
I silently added for him, jamming another noodle in my mouth.

Emery kicked me under the table—again.

~~~

I couldn’t sit still. I had gone upstairs, presumably to bed, at nine thirty, and immediately clipped on my phone earpiece and dressed in the mummy costume, pulling it on over a tank top, workout shorts, and thermal underwear. I was preparing to apply face paint when I realized it was too early to costume up. What if my mom came in to check on me, as she was still compelled to do from time to time? Sleeping in thermal underwear would be reasonable, but wearing face paint and a mummy costume? Reluctantly, I took the costume off.

After fifteen minutes of pacing the floor and strategizing a solution for every scenario I could foresee cropping up in the next several hours, I decided to throw caution to the wind and put the costume and face paint on. I would much rather have my mom catch me dressed as a mummy than not be ready if Mr. Phillips left early to meet his “former client.”

Over the costume I donned loose black sweatpants and a black windbreaker, pulling the hood over my mummified head. After tugging on my Nikes, I busied myself with creating a decoy under my covers, spending more time than ever forming pillows into my body shape.

I got tired of fussing with my decoy around ten. Instead, I snapped up
The Tennant Of Wildfell Hall
from my nightstand and kicked back on my bed with my head on my decoy’s stomach, turning page after page that might as well have been printed with invisible ink. When I’d had enough of reading, I took to staring at my phone, waiting for Emery’s text.

When Emery had walked me home after dinner, he’d decided to take a chance and plant a tracking device on his parents’ car. That way, when Mr. Phillips left the house, I could follow him, while Emery tracked his movements on GPS in case I lost him or he drove down a main thoroughfare or something. If I were to lose him, Emery would guide me to his dad’s destination.

We didn’t have a plan beyond that, other than a mummy taking the baddies by surprise if need be, which is why I wore the costume under my clothes. Once Mr. Phillips led us to the microchip, we would improvise, or, as Emery was fond of saying, we would cross that bridge when we came to it.

At 10:55 p.m., the anticipated text came:
My dad is heading out. Jump.

I breathed a prayer and did just that, landing as Mr. Phillips walked out his front door. He looked like he had stepped out of
GQ
magazine, duded up in a leather jacket over a knit shirt, slacks, and dress shoes—all black, of course. Black shades were the only thing missing from the ensemble. I wondered how many weapons were tucked away under his slick outfit.

I crept along my shadowy fence line, watching him circle around to the front of his car, his eyes never resting as they scanned the nearby vicinity. He directed the remote on his keychain at the driver’s side door, then lowered his hand again, as if thinking. Suddenly, he dropped into a squat and reached under the car, feeling around.