Inquest, Page 7

Not that it was surprising that my mom drained my lunch account, but a little warning would have been nice. I have my own money. I didn’t even think about it last night, though, and all I could get to eat today was an apple. The lunch lady here is a real gem. The thunk of my meager lunch hitting the only empty desk draws the attention of the people seated around me in my Perception class. I pointedly ignore their hateful glares.

  Until I dig through my bag to find a pencil and realize I must have lost my only one when Angus and Marvin knocked me into a row of lockers and accidentally kicked my bag halfway down the hall. They, and the other members of Lance’s pack, have worked hard to make sure everyone knows about last night. They’ve been as bad as the stupid school Guardian following me around all day.

  I expected the nasty reaction people would have to me when they found out, but I’m still sick of it, regardless. If those idiot football players touch me again, I’m going to have a hard time not letting my Strength show. Right on their jaws. Irritation sweeps through me deeply, and I turn away from my bag in search of a pencil. As soon as I look up every set of eyes is suddenly keenly interested in what the teacher is saying. All but one.

  Seeing anything past his much too long, unbrushed brown hair is tricky. One raised eyebrow and the fact that he is still looking at me says one of two things. He’s either spent the entire day with the ear phones I can see trailing out from under his hair firmly stuck in his ears, and he has no idea why everyone else looks ready to murder me where I sit, or he doesn’t care. I’m pretty sure it’s the first one. Either way, I need a pencil, and he is the only one available to ask.

  “Hey, um…” I don’t think I’ve ever seen this guy before. I have no idea what his name is. Great way to start off asking for a favor.

  Noticing my helplessness, he goes from curious to mildly amused. “Milo,” he says. His deep voice resonates despite its low volume. The contrast of his voice and unkempt appearance is striking.

  I force myself to ignore it and get on with my request before the hawk-faced teacher at the front snaps at me. “Milo, can I borrow a pencil? I lost mine.”

  “Sure,” he says with a shrug. Taking the pencil off his still closed notebook, he hands it over to me.

  “Don’t you need that one?” I ask.

  “Not likely.” Then he closes his slate grey eyes and slumps down in his chair even further.

  Great. The one person still willing to talk to me—except maybe Jen, if I could find her anywhere—and he happens to be a hopeless, grungy slacker. Although he does have a surprisingly clear skin and masculine features for being so sloppy. I really wish Jen was a junior like me, instead of a sophomore. Maybe I’d actually see her if we were in the same grade. At least this Milo character is in my grade since he’s the only one willing to talk to me. All I’ve got is this guy. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  His nod is barely perceptible, but he does deign himself to open one eye and glance at me again before falling back into a stupor. Done making friends for the day, I turn back to the teacher and try very hard to concentrate on what she is telling everyone. Unfortunately for me, she’s blathering on about the basics of what having a talent for Perception means, just as all of my other talent teachers have felt the need to do today. That might be as much of a reason for all the hostile looks I’ve been getting as for being the Destroyer. Sitting through a lecture you have to hear every time another student goes through their Inquest can easily be a fate worse than death.

  The stupidest part is that I already know everything she’s trying to tell me. I’ve been hiding my talents for longer than Ms. Hernandez has been teaching. Plus, my dad was one of the most powerful Perceptives in the Southwest before he died. I’ve known how to discern lies from truth since I was eight years old. I can feel it on my skin when someone near me has an emotional reaction to something. Reading their distress or joy to find the source is almost second nature to me. I do it without thinking most of the time and filter it out just as easily. Which I do as a force of habit to stay sane and out of other people’s business. I could perform an Inquest right now if the need were to suddenly arise, as ridiculously unlikely as that would be.

  Of all the classes I don’t need an introduction to it is this one. I don’t want to look like I’m taking after Milo over there, so I studiously try to take notes while I eat my lone apple and pretend I have no clue about anything. That ends up being harder than I expect. Not only is Ms. Hernandez’s voice so piercing and irksome that I can barely stand to listen to it, Milo distracts me every few minutes by rousing from his music-induced slumber to watch me. His obvious amusement at my attempt to be a good student starts rubbing on my raw nerves very quickly.

  When the bell rings, only a few decibels more shrill than Ms. Hernandez’s voice, I snap my notebook closed and hand the pencil back to Milo even though it means having to ask someone else to borrow one in my next class. Milo only huffs out a little laugh.

  “No, no, keep it. You’ll get more use out of it than I will.” Leaving me hanging with the pencil dangling from my fingers, he turns and walks out of the room. Irritated more than ever, I shove the pencil in my bag and stalk out of the room as well. Any delusions I had of concentrating through the rest of my classes disappears entirely as I rush through the crowd. Perception training is the only class I have with Milo, but his irritating little smirks and remarks stay with me through my sixth and seventh hours. Only the rapid clearing of the halls after seventh hour steals enough of my tangled emotions to allow me to let most of it go. Walking into my last class of the day to find a smiling little old man beckoning me to take my seat is enough to push the rest of it away.

  He obviously knows who I am since he’s teaching a class on what it means to be the Destroyer, but instead of shrinking away from me he welcomes me by taking my hands in his and shaking them gently.

  “Which do you prefer to be called, Libitina or Cassia?” he asks.

  “Neither. I’m Libby.”

  “Pity,” he says with a shake of his head, “Cassia is a beautiful name.”

  “Not when it’s yours,” I mumble.

  I didn’t say it loud enough to be heard, but the man who looks like he should be relying on hearing aids to catch anything stops when I say it and turns back to me. “It’s a beautiful name regardless of what it stands for, and maybe even because of it.”

  I don’t see how that could be, but I ask anyway. “What do you mean?”

  He smiles knowingly, and says, “Maybe by the time you finish this class you’ll understand.”

  He walks up to the front of the classroom and composes himself visibly. “Well, why don’t we get started? I am Mr. Walters and we have a lot to cover this year.”

  Well, he has a lot to cover this year. I have already spent years researching the scarce information available about the Destroyer. At first I did it alone. Searching books, the internet, anything I could get my hands on that had to do with the Destroyer. It wasn’t very encouraging. After my dad figured out who I was, he helped me find out more, sharing everything he’d learned through his work with Inquisitor Moore. Between the two of us, we learned by heart every story and legend surrounding my destiny, every hint about my future—what few there were—and a small collection of secrets and warnings neither of us ever told anyone else. As much as we learned about how scary and terrible I’m supposed to be, I never really figured out what it was, specifically, I was supposed to do that was so horrible. I mean, sure, I’m supposed to destroy the world, but how? When? And most importantly, why? Those secrets are still hidden somewhere.

  “I do hope you are patient with me, Libby,” Mr. Walters says, interrupting my thoughts, “because I only received this assignment late last night and had very little time to prepare. It’s not an easy task to consolidate a lifetime of research into a curriculum overnight. And we only have an hour at a time to work with. I do hope that by the end of the year you’ll have a better unde
rstanding of what you will be expected to do as the only member of the Destroyer class.”

  “Uh, really?”

  You would think the majority of the world would be much happier if I had no idea what I was supposed to do as the Destroyer. I’m not even sure I want to know what I’m supposed to do. Every time I’ve tried to find out it never led anywhere good, so now I’d like to avoid finding out in the hopes that if I don’t know I’ll never actually do anything bad.

  “Of course, dear. You have to know your purpose in life if you expect to ever accomplish it, don’t you?”

  There is something wrong with this man. “But I don’t want to fulfill my purpose. I don’t want to hurt or destroy anything. You don’t want me to do that either. Nobody does!”

  “Well, of course no one wants to see you harm anyone, but that’s hardly the point,” Mr. Walters says.

  “How is that not the point?”

  “Because the point of this class is to teach you to be the best Destroyer you can possibly be. What you do with that knowledge is completely up to you, but I refuse to have a student leave one of my classes not fully trained to do their duty.”

  He’s serious. As if my killing people a few years from now has no bearing on his teaching me to do it, he opens his notebook and instructs me to do the same. What choice do I have but to follow him?

  “Now,” he says, “I have been researching the Destroyer class most of my life. It has always fascinated me that there is only one member, one single person meant to destroy our entire society. When we have millions of Guardians to fight against the Destroyer, Visionaries who might see her coming, Concealers to find her, etc., I have always been curious about how this one person is actually meant to succeed.”

  I cough and interrupt his rambling. “If the Destroyer, me, has all the talents of the ones meant to stop me, then all I have to do is use the talents I have against them, right? That’s hardly a mystery.”

  “Precisely,” he says, “but the problem is that while a Guardian only needs to focus on honing Speed and Strength, you must master all seven talents if you have any hope of surviving past your eighteenth birthday. Mastering one or two talents takes years, decades even, but you only have two years. That, my dear, is the real question that has plagued me for so long. How can one person reach perfection before the whole world turns on her?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess that would be something of a problem, if I was planning on actually surviving longer than two years,” I say.

  Mr. Walters simply blinks at me. “You mean you don’t plan on surviving?”

  “Uh, not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s impossible, for one, and surviving would mean hurting people, ruining lives. I don’t want to be a part of that. I’d rather let one of those psychotic Guardians slice me into little pieces than watch myself do the same thing to someone else.”

  No matter what anyone says, I will not hurt anyone. Not again.

  Walking over to my desk at a slow, thoughtful pace, Mr. Walters surprises me by touching his index finger to the spot of dried blood on my neck. “If you don’t want your gifts then why didn’t you let Lance or the Guardian kill you last night? Why don’t you kill yourself right now?”

  He pushes back his blazer sleeve and snatches the Guardian blade out of its sheath so quickly I barely see more than a flash of light on steel before it is pressing against my throat. A Guardian. My heart is pounding against my chest, my mind screaming at me to run. I am alone in a room with a Guardian who is apparently obsessed with the Destroyer. With me. And he has a knife balanced exactly against my carotid artery. Black spots fleck my vision and I realize I’m hyperventilating. It requires all my quickly vanishing willpower to tap my Naturalism and slow my breathing enough to see clearly again.

  “If you ask me to kill you, I will do that for you, Libby, though I would not take any pleasure in it,” Mr. Walters says. “Or if you prefer to end your life by your own hand, I will not stop you. Either way, if death is what you truly want, I will allow you to have it. Right here. Right now. This is the only time I will make this offer, Libby. It is your choice.”

  The pressure of the blade on my skin increases slightly, and I cry out. “No! No don’t!”

  Instantly the knife is withdrawn, back in its sheath like it never left. “Why?” he asks.

  “Because I don’t want to die,” I say. Tears bleed down my cheeks and I wipe them away furiously, angrily.

  “You will die eventually. There is no doubting that.”

  “But I don’t want to die yet, not today. Not for as long as I can manage it.” Maybe it’s wrong to want to live. With everything I’ve done, and am, I probably deserve to die. But I don’t want to. Not yet.

  Placing his hands on my desk, Mr. Walters leans forward. His wizened features grow eerily strong and firm as he peers down at me. “If you don’t want to die, then you have to embrace who and what you are, Libby. Becoming the Destroyer is the only thing that is going to keep you alive.”

  Chapter 6

  Risk