The Blood Guard (The Blood Guard series) (3 page)

I stared at the spot where the guy in the suit had disappeared. “I hope that hurt,” I whispered.

C
H
A
PT
E
R
4
:

YOU’VE GOT TO PICK A POCKET OR TWO

I
emptied my busted old yellow backpack onto the seat beside me.

There wasn’t a single thing that was going to be useful if those people caught up to me. A massive hardbound textbook. A novel called
Fahrenheit 451
that we were reading for English. A bunch of pens and a binder full of class notes that I never bothered to look at. And, wadded up at the bottom, my embarrassing gymnastics outfi
t
—
l
ike
that
would come in handy if I needed a change of clothes.

I checked my phone for a message from my mom, but there was nothing new. So I did something stupid: I called my dad’s cell.

I don’t know what I was thinking. That my dad would answer, maybe, and tell me that this was all a mistake, that my mother was confused, that he wasn’t in trouble. That he’d laugh and tell me everything was okay.

Someone picked up on the third ring. “Evelyn,” said a man who wasn’t my dad. “Where are you right now?”

I hung up. Almost immediately the phone buzzed in my hand: Whoever it was, calling back. In a panic, I powered down the phone and shoved it and everything else inside my backpack, then stashed it in the overhead luggage rack.

That’s when I saw hi
m
—
t
he skinny older kid who’d bumped into me outside the station. He was doing a Good Samaritan thing now, helping two white-haired ladies with their enormous bags.

As I watched, wondering what grandmas pack that takes up so much spac
e
—
k
nitting? extra cats? every warm blanket ever created
?
—
I
saw the skinny guy slide something from the front pocket of one of the bags and slip it into his jacket.

A ticket. He’d stolen one of the ladies’ train tickets.

With the suitcases stowed away, the skinny guy bowed. The old women thanked him, and he sauntered down the aisle into the next car.

I didn’t pause to think; I went after him. Maybe I couldn’t help my mom or dad, but I could at least take care of this thief. I’d make him give the ticket back, have him thrown off the train.

The glass door between the cars whooshed open, and I worked my way forward, glancing at the passengers.

At the end of the next car, I nearly tripped over his feet. He’d reclined across an entire row, his scarecrow legs in their black jeans stretched out in front of him, his scuffed old Doc Martens hanging in the aisle. He was slouched against the window, engrossed in a cheap yellow spiral-bound notebook, doodling.

“You!” I said, pointing. I hadn’t really thought about what I’d say after that.

“Yup, me,” he said, lifting an eyebrow as he stashed the notebook inside his brown leather jacket. “Did you want to know the time?” He had a ghost of an accent, a faint British lilt.

“I saw you steal that woman’s ticket.”

“Ach, she doesn’t need it. Not really. But you know who does?
Me
.”

“Of course she needs it!” Didn’t she? “Anyway, she bought it.”

“Have a seat.” He folded his legs under him and gestured. “I don’t really like that whole you-standing-over-me thing. Puts a crick in my neck having to look up at you.”

I didn’t know what else to do, so I sat down next to him. He smelled a little bit, like he hadn’t showered in a few days. “I’m going to tell the conductor,” I said. “He’ll have you thrown off the train.”

“Is that really what you want?” He drew his dirty blond hair behind his ears, scratched the stubble along his chin, and said, “Look, where’s the harm in it? No one is going to give an old lady a hard time for losing her ticke
t
—
m
ost people just aren’t bred that mean. They’ll think she mislaid it, and they’ll give her a pass. Meantime, I helped her with her bags, an
d
—
”

“Tickets, please.”

I hadn’t even noticed the approach of the conductor. Without thinking, I found myself passing my ticket over. The man punched it, gave it back, then slid a green tag into the shelf over my head.

“Is it long to Washington?” the thief asked, handing over hi
s
—
I
mean, the old lady’
s
—
t
icket.

“Oh, just under three hours. Time enough for two teenage boys to get into trouble.” The conductor’s smile beneath his gray, bushy moustache appeared kind. “Mind that you don’t.”

“Yes, sir,” said the thief.

And then the conductor moved on.

“I was just an accomplice to a crime,” I muttered. I was completely useless unless someone like my mom was telling me what to do. No wonder she got me out of the way.

“Don’t worry yourself,” said the thief. “I’m fine, you’re fine, the old biddies will be fine. It’s survival of the fleetest.”

“Fittest,” I said. “The phrase is ‘survival of the fittest.
’
”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, Evelyn Ronan Truelove.” The thief extended one of his grimy hands. “Jack Dawkins, at your service.”

My heart hammered. Everything my mom had done to get me safe, everything I’d gone through, and I’m so stupid that I sit down right besid
e—

“Don’t go getting all pale around the gills,” Dawkins said. “You didn’t ask me
the time
. You were supposed to ask so that I could tell you it is twelve minutes to midnight.”

I collapsed against the seat. “Why didn’t you
say
something when you saw me outside?”

“Didn’t know for sure what we’d find in that station.” He shrugged and looked thoughtful. “Makes no sense they’d be after you. But something very strange is going on.”

“After
me
,” I repeated.

“Yes, but don’t worr
y
—
i
f they’d taken you before you got on the train, I’d have swooped in and saved the day.” His face broke into another bright smile, and I found myself smiling back.

“They almost caught me in the bathroom.”

“No kidding!” He laughed. “Who do you think it was shouting about security? And may I say, well done slipping out the bathroom window like that. I don’t know how you managed, but it threw that bunch into a panic.”

“Thanks.” For the first time all day, I felt a tiny bit proud of myself.

There was a sudden noise, like an animal howling from underneath the seat.

I clutched the armrest. “What was that?”

“My stomach, Ronan. That’s how it tells me it’s hungry.” He stood up and shooed me forward. “Come on. There’s got to be a café somewhere on this lousy conveyance.”

As he led the way down the aisle, the train rocke
d
—
a
tiny jostle, not all that big a dea
l
—
b
ut somehow it sent Dawkins sprawling face-first into the midst of a family on vacation. He practically fell upon the father, who helped set Dawkins back on his feet.

“Sorry!” Dawkins said, straightening the man’s coat.

At the far end of the car, Dawkins rotated his hand and revealed a sleek black wallet he’d lifted from the man’s jacket. Fishing out a wad of twenties, he dropped the wallet into the trash slot and said, “Onward! I’ve got an emptiness within me that no number of hot dogs will be able to fill.”

A few minutes later, Dawkins ordered what he called “a snack”: eight hot dogs, as many hamburgers, five candy bars, two huge plates of gooey nachos, a couple of bags of chips, and six diet sodas. “I’m watching my weight,” he said with a wink.

The dining car was lined with blue vinyl bench seats facing each other across white Formica tables, and there was a tiny snack bar in the middle manned by an older woman with bleached blonde hair. Her name tag read
BRENDA
. “All that food, just for you?” she asked. “I’m going to have to get you a bigger tray!”

She produced a turquoise fiberglass tray from a cupboard, and Dawkins mounded everything onto it. He sat down in the first booth, and I slid into the bench opposite.

“What is this Blood Guard thing?” I asked. “And who were those people in the station?”

“All in good time.” He fluffed out a napkin and tucked it into the neck of his T-shirt. He wasn’t as young as I’d first thought. He
looked
like he was a senior in high school, but something about his eyes seeme
d
—
t
here’s no other word for i
t
—
o
ld
. “In the Guard, it pays to eat fast, before some nasty sort tries to stick a knife in you.”

Dawkins began folding the hot dogs in half in their buns and shoving them into his mouth. He’d chew vigorously for a moment, take a mouthful of soda, then swallow with an audible
gulp
. He shoved the last hot dog my way, saying, “You should eat something.”

I shook my head
no
, feeling queasy.

“Your call, old boy.” He leaned back, placed his hands on his belly, and belched. “Okay then. To understand the Blood Guard, you need to understand who it is they protect. Among the seven billion or so people on this planet, there exist thirty-six who are better than all the rest of us put together. Thirty-six pure souls. Deep down, these people are genuinely
goo
d
—
s
o much so that they make up for the darkness and sins committed by the other six billion and change on Earth.” He worked something out of his teeth with his tongue. “They’re not a bunch of Goody Two-shoes. It’s more that they radiate a kind of…purity of spirit, let’s call it.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thirty-six awesome people somewhere in the world.”

He shook his head. “Not
somewhere
, not all together like some classroom full of A-plus students. No, just scattered around the planet, like diamonds in a dump truck full of pebbles.” He noisily slurped one of his sodas. “You with me so far?”

“Thirty-six diamonds in a bunch of pebbles.” I listened for a moment to the train’s wheels clattering against the track. “But what does this have to do with my dad being kidnapped? Or my mom being…” I didn’t know what to call her.
Badass?

“I’m getting there.” He tore open a bag of chips and emptied half of them into his mouth. “The thirty-six appear in many mystical writings as the Righteous Ones, or the
Tzadikim Nistarim
, or simply the Pure.

“The sources all agree on one point,” Dawkins said, swallowing. “The Pure are the only thing that stops God from saying, ‘Enough already!’ wiping the world clean, and starting over.” He wiped his mouth with a wadded-up napkin. “Noah’s Flood happened because there were too few Pure in the world. Whenever even
one
of the Pure dies, the entire world suffers.”

“You believe that God is going to destroy the world if thirty-six people aren’t here?” My mom might not be crazy, but this guy was obviously bonkers.

“Think of it like the spokes on a bicycle wheel. Snap one, and the wheel still holds its shape, right? Take out three spokes, and it starts to warp. Seven, and the warping gets pretty bad. You don’t have to remove every spoke to make the wheel collapse. The Second World War happened because
five
of the Pure had been found and murdered. The Dark Ages? Eight Pure had been killed, and as a result, the world was plunged into centuries of misery, ignorance, and plague.”

“But these thirty-six people have to die sometime,” I said. “No one lives forever.”

“That’s what you’d think,” Dawkins said with a smirk. “A natural death isn’t the problem; a Pure’s soul is reincarnated almost instantaneously. It’s when the Pure dies before his
appointed
tim
e
—
w
hen that Pure is murdere
d
—
t
hat the world suffers during the long wait for the soul to come back into being.”

Brenda came around from behind the snack bar and walked over. “Just put the tray back when you’re done,” she told him. “I’m going to take my break.”

He gave her a thumbs-up, and the dining car was empty except for us.

Dawkins licked his fingers. “Anyway, as I was saying, the Pure are vitally important. Which is where the Blood Guard comes in. The Guard was brought into being to protect the Pure, because they can’t protect themselves.”

“Why not? Are they super wimpy or something?”

“Because they don’t know what they are.”

“Couldn’t you just gather them all together and hide them in a castle or something?”

“The Pure can’t know
what
they are, or it changes
who
they are. See, part of what makes them so special is that they don’t have any skin in the game. You know how ugly some very pretty people can become once they’ve
learned
they’re pretty? It’s like that. When one of the thirty-six learns he is pure, he loses that essential goodness and stops being pure. And, as a result, the world becomes a tiny bit darker, steps a tiny bit closer to ruin.