Guardians: The Girl (Book 1): Guardians, #1

Chapter One:

The Boy

Okay, it’s official: I’m a coward. No one is in class today but me—and the new twin foreign exchange students from Japan. The boy’s name is Rio. He’s tall, lanky, and on the cutting edge of fashion. His hair is flaming red and falls into a shaggy bob cut that usually covers his face. His lips are plum red and he has eyebrows most girls would die for.

Rio looks like a Harajuku poster boy. This I learned from Wikipedia; it is a fashion trend in Japan where the kids dress in bold colors, patterns, and off-the-beaten-path clothing. I find him sexy in a dark, mysterious way.

His twin sister, Miku, is more bohemian. No matter the weather, she can be found in dresses that are usually soft, flowery, and flowing. She has almond-shaped gray eyes like her brother. Her hair is jet black, bone straight, and falls down to her waist. Her bangs frame her soft face beautifully. She wears a single honey blonde braid on the right side. But where Rio stands at 6’0, his sister is nearly a foot shorter.

We’ve said hello to each other in passing, but I’ve never struck up a conversation.

I wonder what it would be like if I had that kind of charm. Would I take over governments? Start wars? Or maybe, just try to get a date for senior prom?

It doesn’t surprise me that the twins are here. They never miss a day of school.

Since they arrived, I’ve been fascinated by the way they are with each other. They can be laughing quietly and joking around, but if a student enters the room looking worried or upset, it changes the mood of the twins. Suddenly they are concerned as well. Of course this is all me—having way too much time on my hands to analyze other people’s behavior.

Still, I imagine their lives are somehow filled with adventure. I wish mine was.

I’d like my life to be as exciting as Joan of Arc’s or Queen Elizabeth’s. Their existence changed the world. I daydream about being that kind of girl. But those women were brave and defiant. Me, on the other hand, I can’t even cut one lousy class.

The reason for such a low turnout in my last class period is the weather. New York City rarely has temperatures above 30 degrees in January. But here we are just two weeks in to the new year, and it’s a blissful 70 degrees outside. So everyone said a silent "Thank you" to global warming and ditched class.

My friend Sara coaxed me to join her, but at the last minute, I chickened out. I never go against the rules. Not because I don’t have a desire to, but because I am afraid of the repercussions. What if I cut class and got caught? They’d call my mom and I’d be grounded. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but still….

It isn’t just the weather that has made people skip Mr. White’s history class, it’s Mr. White himself. He rarely makes eye contact with the class, or even asks questions to see if we are following along with the lesson. It’s as if he’s talking to himself. He’s a one-man show, and we inconvenience the hell out of him by being there.

I raise my hand and get permission to go to the bathroom. I head down the hallway and encounter the Armani-Dior-McCartney parade. Fashionistas come towards me armed with posh handbags, perfect teeth, and utter disapproval.

I am the only kid at Livingston Academy that doesn’t have old money. Actually, I don’t have new money either. My grandfather was a janitor here for twenty years before he died. As a favor, the dean arranged it so I could get a partial scholarship. It’s still out of our price range, but my mom won’t hear of public school.

Standing there, I thought I’d get my stuff and make a break for it, but no, I walked right past my locker and into the girls’ bathroom. Like I said: big coward.

I look at myself in the mirror and sigh. I am so uninteresting. My face is too round, my eyes are too far apart, and my cheekbones lack the height needed to elevate me to exotic. The only thing that stands out about me is my eyes: they’re as purple as the stupid dinosaur. And, well, that’s just weird.

What’s even weirder is that they go various shades of purple depending on my mood. If I’m angry, they become such a deep shade of purple they appear black. When I’m sad, they lighten up and take on an electric, neon glow. I hate my eyes. They come from my father. He had encountered my mother on her way home from school—and raped her. She went to the police, but they never caught him. She tried to put that night behind her, but then I came along.

My mom, Marla, calls me the one good thing in her life. Funny, I never saw it that way. She had a scholarship to Columbia University and was going to be pre-law, but she had to postpone school to have me. Then my grandparents died in a car accident and she had no one to help support her.

So, she put off school and got a series of dead-end jobs to make ends meet. Law school became a distant fantasy. She poured all her dreams into me. She wants me to be what she would have been had she not had me: a brilliant attorney slash striking social butterfly.

But it takes a full night of cramming to squeeze out a C+ or B- on my exams. That is not brilliance. And as far as being striking goes, as I said, the only remarkable thing about me is my eyes. I always get asked about wearing contacts. I get so fed up with that question.

So here I am, Emerson Hope Baxter, a fifteen-year-old, purple-eyed freak living in New York City. I look at myself in the mirror once again. I smooth out a wayward strand of ink colored hair and tighten my ponytail. I take one last look at myself. I’m 5’4" without a curve in sight. I sigh, again.

I wash my hands and head out the door. The urge to ditch doesn’t last long.

Besides, even if I ditched class, where would I go? Everyone who cut class today had something fun and exciting to do. Their lives have urgency and meaning. My life, on the other hand, is routine and ordinary.

So, no ditching, but I’m doing the next best thing; I head to the nurse’s office, my safe haven. The nurse’s name is Cora. She lets me crash on one of the cots when life at Livingston Academy has gotten to be too much. I run to the safety of the Lysol-scented office until I get enough nerve to face the world again.

As I head down the hallway, I hear a moan coming from the janitor’s closet. I walk up and press my ear to the door. I turn the knob half expecting it to be locked, but it isn’t. The person moans even louder.

Hello?

Help! a male’s voice says weakly in the dark.

I gently drag him out of the closet and prop him up against the wall. I know I have seen him before. I can’t remember his name, but he works in the main office. He’s about fifty or so, balding with dark rimmed glasses and kind eyes.

They’re coming for him. Must stop them…hurts so much, he says in barely a whisper.

His face is pale and his lips are pressed together so tightly they form a thin white line. I put my hand on his shoulder to calm him. That’s when I first see the blood. It has seeped through his white shirt and tie and continues to spread its way across his abdomen. By the time I find the origin of the blood, it’s seeped down to the floor. I put my hand on the hole in his stomach, but that does little to slow the bleeding.

Help! Somebody help! I cry out. The hallway answers back with staunch silence.

Help me! I call out again. Nothing.

He’s trying to say something. I lean in closer.

Find him. Tell him to run.

Find who?

He hands me a crumpled blue 5x7 index card. The kind all the students have to

fill out detailing their address and other important information. It’s covered in blood.

Find him, the man insists again.

Okay I will, I promise, hoping that would get him to stay calm.

I call out for help once again, but this time I don’t wait for the silence to mock me. I stuff the index card in my pocket and I run down the hallway as fast as I can. It doesn’t seem fast enough. Should I have left him alone? Can he hang on until I get back?

How long does it take an ambulance to come? Stop thinking, just go! My heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts. I scan the hallways. Not a person in sight.

As I call out again, something hurls itself at me and throws me down to the ground with the force of a category five hurricane. I hit the floor. I would have thought I was dead save for the acute pain traveling from my shoulders down to my ankles. I groan in agony as the thing that attacked me pins me down to the ground. I stare into the face of my attacker.

It’s Rio from my history class. But before I can be sure, he covers me with something. Everything goes dark. I don’t have time to pinpoint what it was because just then gunshots ring out.

I don’t know who is shooting because my attacker won’t let me up, so I fight him.

I know in my head that it is a bad idea to stand up, what with a hail of bullets flying overhead, but panic steps in, and I just want to flee. I have to get up and run away. I punch him repeatedly. I kick and scream for him to let me go. It’s hard to tell if he can hear me over the sound of the gunshots. If he does, it in no way affects him. He holds me down effortlessly with his body and what I think must have been some kind of dark blanket. But where did it come from?

I make one last desperate attempt to free myself; I push past the pain running down my side and hurl myself forward to get out from underneath the boy holding me captive. He doesn’t even budge. How can he be so strong? He’s only 120 pounds or so.

Suddenly, I hear the most beautiful song ringing out into the hallways. It sounds like the kind of melody you’d hear at a funeral. Sad. Haunting. Sorrowful. Tears spring instantly from my eyes. I’m heartbroken but I don’t know why. It’s as if the melody has etched the saddest possible memories into my heart. The pain is worse than any physical thing I could have experienced. I want to die. My captor looks into my eyes.

Don’t listen, he begs as he holds me closer to his chest.

The blanket he has spread over us has somehow gotten darker and heavier. The song sounds far away now. And although I no longer feel the desire to die, I am so saddened by what little melody I can make out, I continue to weep, loudly, into his chest.

Somewhere in between the sobs I think I hear groaning, but I can’t be sure.

The shots stop just as suddenly as they had started, and the hallway is silent again.

The blanket is pulled off of me. I was right. It was Rio who held me down.

What the hell is— My voice dies in my throat. Lying about ten yards away from us are three bodies. And standing a few feet away from them is Miku, Rio’s twin sister.

Horrified, I make my way over. Three men lie lifeless on the floor. I’ve never seen them before. They have on dark suits and ties. A trail of bloody tears has run down their faces. Each of them had torn their shirts open, exposing large blue and green bruises on their chests. I lean in closer and see several bloody self-inflicted gashes. It’s as if they were trying to rip their hearts out.

What did you do? My voice is filled with so much anguish, I barely recognize it. Before Miku has a chance to reply, Rio comes towards us shouting, We have to go! They’re coming.

No sooner does he get the words out than a group of men comes barreling down the stairs, wearing suits and carrying guns. They begin shooting.

Emmy, let’s go! She doesn’t wait for me to move. She grabs my hand and drags me down the hallway towards the exit. I fall in step with her for fear that if I don’t she’ll hurt me like she did the men on the floor. I know it was her. She was the one singing. She had killed three people without putting a hand on them. And now I’m being dragged down the school hallway by a murderer and her brother. But I figure I’m better off with them than the Wall Street mafia back there, right?

The wonder twins and I dodge into the stairwell. Bullets whiz over our heads. The singer pulls the fire alarm. Kids quickly flood the stairwell. The PA system comes on. I can’t hear what the principal is saying as the brother and sister team and I run at breakneck speed past the student body and out the door. Once outside, a red sports car comes towards us at top speed, jumps the curb, and stops just short of hitting us. The door flings open. The driver, whose face I can’t see, says, Get in.

They try to get me inside the car, but I fight them off, kicking and screaming. I’d rather die here than get in this stranger’s car and end up bruised and broken in some dark alley.

Get off me! I shout back.

Had it not been New York City, the sight of a group of teenagers fighting would have been disturbing. But seeing as how the city is always full of strange characters and even stranger happenings, not one person even stopped. Although, there were a few who looked on as they walked by but dismissed it as juvenile horseplay.

Rio somehow gets both my arms behind my back and holds them there. I struggle, but it does no good. His grip is too tight.

I got her. You clean up, Rio instructs his sister.

I cleaned up last time, Miku replies.

So you should be familiar with the process, he retorts. She stares back at him coldly.

Rio lets his guard down for half a second. That’s all I need. I shoot off down the street. They grab a hold of my shirt from behind. I scarcely manage to slip out of it. I thank myself for layering this morning because I didn’t trust the weather to stay this warm throughout the day. I’m halfway down the block. My muscles beg me to stop or even slow down, but I don’t give in.

What’s going on? The question bounces inside my pounding head with every labored breath I take. Don’t stop to analyze, I reason with myself. Just get some distance.

I spot a cop car halfway down the block; seeing an end to their pain in sight, my muscles fully cooperate. I’m now running at top speed, mere yards away from help, when she appears before me, stopping me dead in my tracks.

She looks to be about my age, maybe a year or so older? She stands at a statuesque five feet nine inches. Her beauty defies logic. No one that stunning can be real.

Even if she wasn’t blocking me, I would have had no choice but to stop and marvel at the sheer radiance of her face. Her skin looks as if it was carved out of the night sky: smooth, black, glowing. Her eyes are the color of gleaming pennies; her full lips spread across her face and form a spectacular smile.

Her hair reaches past her shoulders and down to her lower back in thick curls with streaks of copper matching her eyes. She wears black leather pants that hug every flawless curve and a matching fitted black leather vest. I gasp at the impossible perfection before me.

I want frantically to reach out and touch her for two reasons. First, to make sure she is real, and second, I long to put my hands on something so flawless. But I can’t reach out and touch her. That’s not to say that she isn’t real. She’s real, as is the silver handgun she’s pointing at me.

I hear a car pull up, but I can’t tear myself away from the girl in front of me. Get in, she orders. She doesn’t need the gun. I know from the chill going down my spine that she is dead serious, and disobeying isn’t in my immediate best interest. I tear myself away from her face and see the same red car, its door open. I get into the car.

Once inside, the car zooms up Broadway going at nearly twice the speed limit.

The twins are seated next to me. I want to ask where they are taking me, but I’m afraid the minute I open my mouth, I’ll cry. I refuse to give my conquerors the satisfaction of seeing me weep. Instead, I look out the window at the crowds of New Yorkers passing by. As usual, they are all in a hurry to get where they need to be or leave where they’ve just been.

They remind me of my mom. She’s always racing home to make me dinner. But neither of us are good cooks, so we always end up ordering out. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. I had been in such a rush this morning, I didn’t say good-bye. I didn’t even say good-bye to Ms. Charlotte, my cat. She waits for me on the windowsill at exactly 3:30 p.m. every day. I don’t know how she knows it’s time, but I swear she does. She’ll be waiting today…

I try to swallow but can’t. A big lump forms in my throat. Tears stream down my face. Then I remember the emergency card the man in the closet gave me. I had told him that I would help find this boy and tell him to run. It made no sense to me, but it had mattered to the man, and I should have done it. Oh well. I’m sure this boy is safer than me, wherever he is.

I surreptitiously remove the crumpled, bloodstained paper from my pocket. I can’t make out the home number or address of the boy the closet man had failed to reach. But there, printed clearly underneath light splotches of blood, it reads:

Emerson H. Baxter.

I was wrong about the alley. We pull into a quiet, charming, tree-lined street somewhere on the Upper East Side. Everything about the neighborhood says old money lives here, from the rows of five-story brick townhouses to the pristine community garden. When we get to the townhouse at the end of the block, the car pulls into the driveway. The twins get out of the car and hold the door open for me. I know I should try to run, but I’m sure my limbs won’t comply. I slowly get out of the car.

I see the driver for the first time. He’s black and slightly taller than Rio, but his muscular body makes him a hundred times more intimidating. He’s wearing a black hoodie and a platinum twisted chain. I can’t make out his eyes under his Gucci shades.

The twins motion to me to go into the house. Sensing I’m about to object, Rio sighs impatiently, and Miku takes my hand and walks me through the frosted glass door.

The house is breathtaking. From the high ceilings to the smooth wheat-colored finished floor, there isn’t one square inch that’s not appealing to the eye. The house has a historic feel, but the décor is modern with sleek, clean lines. The browns and reds that highlight the décor make the space warm and cozy. The paintings are mostly Monet.

Some I recognize, but two I have never seen before. The bay window looks out onto the park.

Rio and the driver come in behind us and close the door. I’m feeling lightheaded and find it hard to focus. Miku looks at me, smiles brightly, and says, I’ll get you a soda, as if this were any other day and I’m a good friend who happened to come by. Rio goes into another room and comes back with a small trash can and places it at my feet.

Don’t bother, he says to Miku. Just then a wave of nausea hits me. I double over and vomit. I miss the can completely.

Miku goes away and comes back with a wet towel. She bends down and pats my face. I want to go home. You can’t keep me here. Please, I beg her. She walks me over to the plush sofa and sits me down.

She turns to Rio. How is she?

Tired. Shocked. I hate being talked about like I’m not in the room.

Why are you asking him? I’m right here.

She pays me no mind. She should sleep, she says to the driver.

Is she kidding me? I’ve just been in a shoot-out. I’ve seen a man bleeding to death and I’m being kidnapped. How does she think I could possibly sleep?

Tell me what’s going on. Who are you? Why did you force me into your car and who was shooting at us? The more questions I ask, the more hysterical I become.

I want to go home, I shout at the top of my lungs. The driver comes up to me and takes his shades off to reveal soft, warm, hazel eyes. He places a hand on my shoulders. He looks into my eyes and speaks with a soft velvet voice oozing charm. You would like to go to sleep, he says simply. After he says that, nothing matters more than the desire to close my eyelids. I’ve fought off sleep before, but this isn’t like that. There’s no fight. I want nothing more than to give in to darkness. The last thing I see before I drift off is the girl who held me at gunpoint coming towards me.

She’s got to be a part of this whole thing. Why else would Lucy send half a dozen Runners after her?

She looked genuinely surprised when they came. This girl has no idea what’s going on.

That doesn’t make sense. The council would never expose a human to that kind of danger.

I’m telling you, she knows nothing.

It doesn’t matter if Emerson knows something or not. If Lucy thinks she’s involved, she’s dead.

As I listen to the conversation taking place in the living room, I keep my eyes closed. They had carried me into one of the bedrooms when I fell asleep. This is all a dream. This is what I get for falling asleep watching the SyFy Channel. But even as I’m saying it to myself, I know it’s a lie. This is real. And this Lucy person sent a bunch of guys to kill me. What did they call them—Runners? What have I done to this Lucy to make her want me dead? I’m gonna lay still and keep my eyes closed. This nightmare has to end.

"Is she awake?" I think Miku is speaking. Rio answers.

"She is, but she’s trying to wish this whole thing away."

We don’t have time for this. I recognize the voice of the girl who pointed the gun at me.

She sounds irritated and on edge. I open my eyes and scan the room looking for a phone. There isn’t one. I snort at the absurdity of my situation. What would I say to the cops if there had been a phone? "Hi, my name is Emerson Baxter and I’m being kidnapped and held hostage inside, what looks to be, the centerfold of Architectural Digest. "

Someone knocks on the door of the room. Miku’s voice calls out to me sweetly behind the door, Emmy, it’s time to get up. She opens the door and comes over with a tray of food. She sits beside me. On the tray is a small bowl of broth with pieces of a few white squares and a handful of green onions. It’s miso soup. It’s good. My mom used to make it. Oh, and a turkey sandwich. I got Jay to make it for you. He’s a culinary genius, but he’s a little stingy with his talent.

Who’s Jay? I question.

The driver.

He should have his license revoked.

He did. She laughs and hands me the tray.

I’m not hungry.

Rio says you are.

How does he know what I feel?

It’s a long story. First food then Q&A, okay?

I’m ready to argue, but the aroma of the soup hits my nose and my stomach growls. I take one spoonful of the soup intending to stop there, but it is so good I end up eating the whole thing.

Miku studies me. Now, try the sandwich.

No, I’m fine. Really. She looks pleadingly at me.

I’m such a pushover. I take a bite of the sandwich. It’s the best thing I have ever put in my mouth. It has some kind of spread that gives the turkey a kick. There’s also a light sweetness to it, but I can’t figure out from what. I look at Miku in awe.

I know. It’s amazing huh? You should try his parmesan potato bread. It’s his specialty. But he really has to like you to make it.

I gobble it up in four quick bites.

I am making a pig of myself, but Miku doesn’t seem to mind. She hands me a can of soda. I drink it down and wipe my mouth with the napkin she had thoughtfully placed beside the tray. I thank her. She smiles and motions for me to follow her. I take a deep breath and walk after her out of the bedroom, into the living room.

I must have been asleep for hours, judging by the dark sky. The living room is lit softly by track lights. Someone has cleaned the spot where I threw up; the sour smell is gone. The house now smells of green tea and jasmine. There’s no one in sight.

Everyone’s waiting outside, Miku informs me as she leads the way. We walk up a few flights and through a black gated door onto the roof. Standing there beside Rio is the driver, Jay, and the gun girl.

It seems impossible, but she is somehow even more striking than she was when I first saw her. She walks up to me. Her voice is official and impatient. I’m Ameana. And this is Jayden. She motions towards the driver.

He says, It’s cool, call me Jay.

Ameana continues without the slightest concern as to whether I respond or not.

You have something in your possession that is vital to me and many others. We need you to hand it over.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I stammer. She looks at the others, then back at me.

You have no idea what I want from you? she asks again. I try to keep my voice from trembling.

N-n-no, I say weakly.

She turns to Rio. He replies, She’s telling the truth. The Runners haven’t told her anything. She has no idea what’s going on.

I don’t know where the anger comes from. All I know is that I have had enough of this sci-fi bull. I direct my comment to Ameana. Look, warrior princess, I don’t know what you are talking about, okay? I was just trying to help some guy I found in the hallway and then all hell broke loose! If you plan on killing me before this Lucy person, then fine, do it. If not, I have to get home.

How do you know Lucy? Has she come to see you? Ameana turns to Rio.

He answers her unspoken question. She has one. I would know if she didn’t.

One what? I ask.

How do you know about Lucy? Ameana demands again.

Hoping that if I give her some answers she’ll give me some, I reply, I overheard you guys talking. So, who is she? Why is she out to kill me? I look into their faces and see something in