The Blood Guard (The Blood Guard series) (4 page)

“So we can’t really tell them anything, and we can’t let anyone know who they are. No one knows their identit
y
—
n
o one but the Blood Guard. The Guard does its work in secret, its members living a regular life while watching over and protecting the Pure.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with my mom and dad,” I said.

“Your mum is one of the Blood Guard,” Dawkins said. “Her identity was blown, and your home was ransacke
d
—
i
n a search for clues about the identity of the Pure she was guarding.”

“And my dad was kidnapped,” I said. “To put pressure on my mom? To get her to reveal this Pure person?”

“That makes sense,” he said, shuffling the food around on his tray.

“So why are they chasing me?” I asked.

“That is the big mystery,” Dawkins replied. “Our enemies are up to something, and it involves you. That’s all I know.”

“So what’s the plan?” I asked. “You take me to DC and we meet my mom there?”

After a quick swallow of soda, he said, “I’ll hand you over to another Guard in DC, and then I’ll go find your mum. You’ll be safe with Ogabe.” He began peeling the wrappers away from his candy bars like they were bananas.

Outside the window, the landscape had gone from city gray to woodsy green. Connecticut and New York were behind us. The seat rocked gently beneath me, and everything seemed weirdly peaceful. I thought about the man slamming his fist against the window, but that seemed almost unreal now. “I don’t really believe all this,” I said.

“Believe what you like, Ronan Truelove,” said Dawkins. “Your faith doesn’t matter one way or another. I’m just telling you like it is.” He started in on the nachos.

“So is stealing from old grannies part of being in the Blood Guard?”

A Snickers bar disappeared in two sharp bites. “A Guard has to move with stealth, and sometimes, yes, even petty thievery.” He waggled his thin eyebrows. “I move like a shadow on the world, leaving no trace.”

He winked.

And then, “Thieves!” a girl’s voice cried out.

She stood in the doorway, about my age, skinny and almost freakishly pale, with long red hair pulled up on top of her head in some kind of elastic thingy and held in place by a whole bunch of beaded hairpins and barrettes. She was dressed in jeans and a green sleeveless top, nothing too fancy. She might even have been beautiful, except that her expression was so angry it was hard to tell.

I recognized her right away.

She pointed at Dawkins. “You stole that man’s wallet when you fell on him. I
saw
you!”

“Move like a shadow on the world?” I muttered. “
Sure
.”

But Dawkins wasn’t paying me any attention. Instead, he was staring at the girl while he chewed a hamburger, clearly alarmed. “You really should butt out and go back to your seat,” he told her.

“The conductor is searching for the two of you right now, and when he finds you, he’s going to lock you up,” she said, gaining confidence as she saw how upset Dawkins was. “Maybe he’ll handcuff you to a seat or something. Or maybe they’ll just stop the train and have the police take you away.”

“Greta Sustermann,” I said, deciding it was time to speak up.

Greta was probably the smartest person in my old school, back in Brooklyn.

“Ronan Truelove?” Greta said, her brow furrowing. “Loser loner arsonist?”

Sometimes also the most annoying.

“I did not set my house on fire!” I protested. “And you were in the same honors classes with me, so if I’m a loser, so are you.”

“Is that why you left school? To ride the rails with
”
—
s
he sniffed loudl
y
—
“
really filthy pickpockets?”

“
‘Ride the rails’?” I repeated. “Who even talks like that?”

“You
know
this girl?” Dawkins wiped his mouth with a napkin and slid to the edge of the booth. “No one is going to jail, missy.”

“I’m not a
missy
, you creep,” Greta said, reaching into a boxy blue purse that was slung over her shoulder and taking out a slim little smartphone.

“My name,” Dawkins said, “is Jack Dawkins. What are you doing there?”

“Texting my
dad
, who happens to be in law enforcement, to see what
he
advises the conductor to do. You are going to answer for your crimes, sir.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Dawkins said.

“And I really wish you weren’t a scummy thief,” Greta said, her fingers flying across the touch pad. “It’s only a matter of time before your crimes catch up with you.”

“That time has already come,” Dawkins said, frowning. He popped the last bite of Butterfinger into his mouth, then stood and waved. “Hello there!”

A man in a blue suit had come in so silently that I hadn’t even noticed. He passed soundlessly within inches of Greta, ignoring her completely. He was a different guy than the one who’d run alongside the trai
n
—
f
or one thing, this guy’s hair was thin and completely colorless, like it was spun from dental flos
s
—
b
ut he was dressed exactly the same: natty blue suit over a white shirt.

“Greta,” Dawkins said, picking up the turquoise tray and backing up. Floss Hair followed him toward the center of the car. “Be a good sport and take a seat in the booth with Ronan.”

There was a faint
whoosh
from the other end of the car, beyond the snack bar, and I saw that Floss Hair hadn’t come alone.

Another blue suit had appeared. Like Floss Hair, he was quiet and impassive, but this guy was as bald as Mr. Clean. And also like Floss Hair, he was wielding something long, shiny, and sharp, with a fine silvery edge that caught the light.

Greta sat down hard across from me, her phone forgotten in her hand. “What are they holding…?” she asked.

“Swords,” I answered.

C
H
A
PT
E
R
5
:

PUSH COMES TO SHOVE

“S
padroons, to be specific,” Dawkins corrected. “Not to be technical and all, but accuracy is always nice.” He glanced over his shoulder at the bald man advancing his way. “Two against one?” he said to Floss Hair. “That’s hardly sporting.”

Floss Hair didn’t answer, just leveled his weapon.

“But
why
do they have swords?” Greta asked. “Isn’t that overkill for a couple of ticket thieves?”

“We’re not ticket t
h
—
”
I started, then corrected myself. “Okay, maybe Dawkins is, but I’m not. Anyway, those guys have nothing to do with that.”

“So who are they?”

I shrugged. “They’re…bad guys, I guess.”

“You
guess
?” she said. “Did the swords clue you in?”

“Here’s a lesson for you, Ronan,” Dawkins interrupted. “A Blood Guard finds weapons in whatever he has at hand.” As Floss Hair rushed him, he swept the food tray upward. With a sharp
crack
, it knocked the blade aside in a messy shower of mustard-splattered cardboard, candy wrappers, and nacho-gooped napkins.

Floss Hair spun and slashed backward, but Dawkins was ready for the move and used the flat of the tray like a shield to block the blade.

“Behind you,” I warned. Mr. Clean was half a car away but jogging forward.

“He’s still out of reach,” Dawkins said, glancing over his shoulder. “Plenty of time for me t
o
—
”

He parried another thrust from Floss Hair, using the tray to push the blade aside. Floss Hair tried to step back, but Dawkins was too quick: He swung the tray straight up against the man’s jaw with an audible snap. Floss Hair’s eyes rolled back and he slumped unconscious to the floor.

A split second later, Dawkins had the man’s sword clenched in his right hand, and brought it around in time to deflect the bald man’s blade at his back.

Mr. Clean hopped out of range, edging alongside the snack bar.

“Now this is more like it,” Dawkins said, swinging the sword in the air. With his left hand, he whipped the food tray forward like a Frisbee.

It caught Mr. Clean in the shin with a loud crack. It sounded like it hurt, but the man didn’t say a word, just winced and fell to his knees.

“Where’s your Hand?” Dawkins demanded of the man.

“What’s he talking about?” Greta asked me.

“Hands, maybe?” I whispered, confused.

As if in response, the man raised his left arm, gestured at the snack bar, made a fist, then opened his palm toward Dawkins. There was a blast of wind, and all the junk on the counte
r
—
n
apkins, coffee stirrers, salt and pepper packets, a coffeepo
t
—
f
lew forward.

“
Down
!
” Dawkins yelled.

Greta and I dove under the table.

As I did, I glimpsed Dawkins swirling the blade around himself in a bright halo of steel, his sword arm moving blindingly fast as he carved his way through the airborne trash. None of it touched him.

With a quick
thwip-thwip
-thwip
, the vinyl bench where we’d just been sitting suddenly bristled with little spike
s
—
c
offee stirrers, I realized, sunk inches deep into the cushions.

“You guys are in so much trouble,” Greta whispered.

There was a sharp, piercing ring of steel on steel, an earsplitting clash of swords.

I peeked around the corner of the booth. Dawkins and Mr. Clean swung and hacked at each other, grunting and panting with every slash and thrust. Within a handful of seconds, they’d each struck and parried a dozen times.

But Dawkins was the better swordsman.

Mr. Clean was hemmed in by the narrow passage between the snack bar and the wall of the dining car and couldn’t really swing his spadroon.

“Ronan?” Dawkins called back over his shoulder.

I stuck my head out. “Yeah?”

“That bleach-haired bloke by the window? Search him.” Floss Hair looked almost peaceful, like a businessman who had just decided to take a nap on the dining car floor.

“You mean, like, go through his pockets?”

“Yes, Rona
n
—
t
hat’s what
search
usually means.” Dawkins lunged after Mr. Clean, slashing in great sweeps, driving the bald man back.

I crawled across the carpet to Floss Hair’s side, and nearly yelped when I saw Greta on her hands and knees right beside me.

“What?” she said. “I’m not staying back there alone.” There was a wild glint in her eyes. “Go on. Search him.”

Before I did, though, I watched Dawkins snap his toe down hard on the edge of the food tray where it lay on the floor. It popped into the air and he caught it just as Mr. Clean thrust his sword. The man’s blade sank three inches into the tray, then stuck.

“Fiberglass!” Dawkins said, wrenching the tray sideways and yanking Mr. Clean’s sword from his opponent’s hand. He dropped the impaled tray and casually walked forward, swishing the point of his spadroon left and right.

Mr. Clean turned and ran to the bathroom, folding the accordion door shut behind him and locking it

“Fine,” Dawkins said. “You can just stay in there.”

Floss Hair’s pockets were mostly empt
y
—
h
is train ticket and a set of keys in his front pockets, and in his back pocket, a wallet and a photo of me from seventh grade.

“Why does this guy have this dopey picture of you?” Greta asked.

“I wish I knew,” I answered.

“We should restrain him,” Greta said. She slid out the man’s belt, then pulled his arms behind him, looping the belt around his wrists and tying a complicated knot.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked. It didn’t fit with the Greta I knew. She was one of those girls who sat in the front row and always had her hand up before the teacher even finished asking the question.

“My dad’s in the FBI,” she said. “As you’d know if you ever paid attention to anyone at school.”

“My mom kept me busy,” I protested, but it sounded like a lame excuse even to me.

Meanwhile, Dawkins had slid his sword through the bathroom door handle like a crossbar. The guy inside jiggled it; the sword rattled in place but didn’t come loose.

Dawkins walked over to us, dusting off his hands. He eyeballed Floss Hair’s belt-bound hands. “That your idea?” he asked Greta. When she nodded, he smiled and said, “Strong work.”

At that moment, the floor rocked and tilted, and the air was filled with a long metallic wailing. “Oh, for crying out loud,” Dawkins said. “They’re stopping the train.” He helped us to our feet. “Come on, we need to be ready to disembark once it’s stopped. Before more of our friends board.”

“Go ahead,” Greta said. “I’m staying here.”

“I’m sorry, darling, but you’re coming with us.”

She crossed her pale arms and raised her chin. “No, I’m not.”

Looking at her flushed face and glittering green eyes, I believed she was stubborn enough to fight Dawkins. “Let’s just leave her be,” I told him.

But Dawkins shook his head. He bent and wrenched loose the sword that was stuck in the dining tray. “Listen, Greta. These two galoots who came in here? They’re just two of an army.” As if to confirm this, the bathroom door rattled. “The people who come
after
this lot are going to be much meaner.”

“I can handle them,” Greta said. “Tell him, Ronan.”

“She
can
be pretty tough,” I said, remembering how at the start of seventh grade she’d humiliated three massive kids who’d been trying to push around a smaller boy. (
Me
, that is. I’d protested that I didn’t need her help, that I was a better fighter than I looked, but she just told me to shut my mouth and let her save me.)

“I’m sure she is tougher than steel-studded shoe leather, but that won’t matter.” He turned to Greta. “They’re going to believe you’re partnered with me and Ronan here. And they’re going to hurt you. A
lot
. I can’t allow that, so, like it or not, you
are
coming with us.”

Greta quietly surveyed the wreckage around us. “Okay,” she said.

“This is everything the guy had.” I handed over the keys, ticket, and wallet. And, feeling strange about it, my photograph.

“Thanks, Ronan,” Dawkins said, “but I already know what you look like.”

“
He
had it,” I said. “Why does he have a picture of me?”

“A very good question,” Dawkins said. Flipping through the key ring, he came across a black metal cylinder with a button. “Why, lookie here.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A luggage fob,” Dawkins said. He pocketed everything else, then gestured for Greta to lead the way. “After you, Miss Sustermann. But don’t try making a break for it or I’ll run this sword through Ronan here.” He grimaced and mimed skewering me.

Greta rolled her eyes, shoved open the door, and we followed her out.

“What’s the big deal with the luggage whatsit?” I asked.

“It’s like an electronic key for a car,” Greta said. “The suitcase beeps when you press it. Helps you find your bag.”

“Those two were likely put on the train in case you slipped the noose of that group at the station,” Dawkins said. “This key fob means they brought toys.”

While we’d been in the dining car, the terrain had changed again. Gone were the leafy green suburbs. Instead, I saw low, flat plains covered with dark scrub. A busy highway ran parallel to the tracks, with all the usual junky buildings that pop up around highway
s
—
g
as stations and fast-food joints and big black parking lots. Reminded me of a road trip I’d taken with my parents back when I was nine, before my dad’s job changed, before his work had swallowed him up.

Thinking of my dad made me wonder about Greta’s family and her interrupted text message. “Where are your parents, anyway?” I asked.

“They got divorced last year,” she said. “Now my dad lives in DC. I’m going to visit him for a long weekend.”

I heard myself saying “That sucks,” because sometimes that’s all you can say.

“You know what sucks even more?” Greta asked. “Being taken hostage by a kid from my old homeroom and his smelly pickpocket friend.”

“He’s not my friend!” I insisted.

“I’m
right here
, you two,” Dawkins said loudly. “I can
hear
you.”

That was when I became hyperaware of the quiet: No one in the car was saying anything. The passengers were silent, cowering as far away as possible, parents clutching their children, everyone desperate not to be noticed b
y—

By us.

Then I realized why: Not only was Dawkins covered with gobs of cheese and splats of ketchup and mustard, but he was still holding that big sword. A sword that flickered with a faint light all its own. And to top it off, he was smiling that loopy grin of his. We must have looked like a parade of lunatics.

A
bleep
trilled out from somewhere up ahead: a luggage rack with two expensive-looking black case
s
—
a
leather satchel about the size of a backpack, and a larger duffel bag. “These will be ours,” Dawkins said, heaving the duffel at me.

I caught i
t
—
j
ust barely. It was heavy and clanked like it was full of scrap metal.

“You can’t just take their luggage,” Greta protested.

“Oh, yes I can. They tried to stick us with those swords. The least they can do is give us whatever it is they brought with them.” Grabbing the satchel, Dawkins gestured toward the back of the train. “Move along.”

In the next car, we came face-to-face with the mustachioed conductor. The man raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Dawkins said, the sword pointed directly at the conductor’s heart, “but I’ll be needing your keys.” Without a word, the man unclipped a big key ring from his belt and handed them over. “Many thanks,” Dawkins said. “Now we’ll just get out of your hair.”

I glimpsed my backpack in the overhead rack as we passed, but there was nothing in there I needed, only my school stuff, so I left it where it was.

We went through one more car full of people. Outside, the landscape was barely crawling by; another few minutes and the train would be at a complete stop.

At the car’s end, Dawkins unlocked a windowless door and ushered us inside. The baggage car was packed floor to ceiling with cages full of boxes and trunks. A narrow aisle led straight between them to a windowed door at the back of the train.

Greta and I peered out through the dirty glass, watching the tracks unspool behind the train like two long strands of silver ribbon.

“The end of the line,” Greta said. She rearranged some pins in her fire-red hair. “I’ve thought it over, and there is no way I’m getting off this train with you two.” She stared at Dawkins. “Are you going to stab me to get through this door? I don’t think so.”