Mooncalf

Chapter Four


Stick didn’t rat me out, despite the palette of plums and blue-blacks surrounding his left eyesocket. I thought it really looked rather pretty. The guys in the class had another idea—they spent the entire thirty minutes of homeroom ribbing him about it, placing bets on whether or not he had actually hit his attacker back. They mostly said not. The girls in the class had still another idea—they suddenly thought that Stick had become a brooding bad boy, Ryan Atwood-style. You know, getting into fights for righteous reasons and then refusing to rat out the bad guy. They would have been entirely right, but did they have to keep fawning over him about it?

“Oooh, Jack, it really looks like it hurts. Does it hurt, Jack?”

“Ooooh, Jack, can I get you some ice?”

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your eye, Jack!”

“Poor Jack. Do you need a backrub?”

I rolled my eyes. What drivel high school girls can come up with. And why they were calling him by his first name was beyond me. I didn’t even realize they knew he had a first name, except when he was honored for something or another in assembly every other week. But apparently, violent guys are real men, or something. Don’t ask me how the minds of human girls work. I’m not entirely convinced that they do. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his back.

The whole half-hour of homeroom was like that, but I heroically refrained from puking. Instead, I paid attention to the teacher, for once. Miss Jonsey couldn’t compete with Stick’s black eye because, after all, there had been an incident of black magic on school grounds once before. Marabell wondered aloud if “Jack” had gotten into a fight with the witch, but that was as far as Miss Jonsey’s topic entered into the consciousness of her class.

Except me. I paid very close attention. This time, it appears that the evidence was left outside, and I had a suspicion that our spot wouldn’t be flying under the faculty’s radar anymore. Two incidents in two weeks. The school was taking this very seriously, Miss Jonsey intoned to her chattering students. Devil-worship was nothing to joke about at Galmon Academy, founded in 1832 by some bishop or other. This was a highly-respected establishment, and when the principal discovered who was behind these black practices, those responsible would be in deep trouble. The loudspeaker interrupted her lecture.

“Would Cambion Goodchilde please come to the office? Cam Goodchilde, to the office.”

All office announcements were made over the loudspeaker. I guess the powers that be didn’t worry too much about gossip—probably because it would run rife anyway. I grabbed the hall pass that Miss Jonsey offered and walked past the rows of my classmates—suddenly whispering for another reason, I knew—with my head held high. Even when Marabell stage-whispered, “You’re going to get what’s coming to you, Cam Goodchilde.”

For the records, let me state that my last name comes neither from my father nor my mother. My mother actually would have nothing to do with me when it was discovered upon my birth that I didn’t breathe or have a heartbeat. (Hey, give me a break, okay? When you don’t need oxygen to survive, breathing is a difficult task to master.) Anyway, the Guardians promptly swooped in and my mother gladly handed me over to them. They were the ones to give me my name. Honestly. Cambion? It’s a miracle no one’s discovered my true identity before this. As for Goodchilde, well, I guess they were being optimistic. I mostly considered my surname a prime example of irony. Or possibly an oxymoron.

I felt Stick’s eyes on me in particular as I left the room, and wondered if maybe he’d snitched on me after all. That probably shouldn’t have surprised me, but I might black his other eye anyway.

As it turned out, Stick wouldn’t be getting any more feminine attention than he already was, though. When I arrived at the office, the receptionist handed me a sheet of paper.

“Your new class schedule, honey,” she explained. I always got a kick out of it when people insinuated that I was a sweet girl. I have a fairly twisted sense of humor.

“What’s wrong with the schedule I’ve got?” I asked.

“Oh, didn’t you know? Your guardian called the principal last night at home—pretty late, too, from what I’ve heard. Anyway, he—your guardian, I mean—said that you would be needing to be in these classes. And I guess he must have some friends in high places, because it’s not very usual to allow students to change classes in the middle of the term. Anyway, good luck, dear. The principal suggested your friend Jack if you need any help.”

Why on earth or in hell would I ask Stick for help with my homework? We weren’t in that many classes together. I glanced at the sheet in my hands. Well. We hadn’t been until now. As of today, however, it looked like I would be sharing every single freaking class with my own personal babysitter. Fabulous. Another seven hours of watching girls fawn over his eye and I’d be ready to send myself to hell.

The receptionist waved an envelope at me. “Oh, I almost forgot. Your guardian sent this over for you.” She gave me a look. Most students got their mail the usual way—in their mail cubbies. The Guardians wanted their correspondence to be delivered in person, I supposed. I didn’t have any experience to base it on. The only mail I had ever received had been fliers inviting me to the grand opening of some place that only served buffalo wings. Oh, and a hate letter from Marabell a few weeks ago. The girl really had an extensive and creative vocabulary. I had tacked it to the wall above me bed, right by the Calvin and Hobbes snowman comics I liked.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” she asked brightly.

“No.” I smiled at her obvious disappointment. She probably thought my “guardian” was some bigwig with lots of money, like I was a rockstar’s love child or something.

Actually, come to think of it, my dad had played the drums when he and my mom had . . . done their thing.

I stuffed the letter in my pocket and bolted before the principal decided my important and wealthy guardian required that he speak to me. Since I had the hall pass anyway, I went to the bathroom to read my letter. All right, so I detoured to the third floor—the one by the old chemistry lab that wasn’t used because none of the faucets worked. No one ever came by here, so I would have a bit of privacy.

I adjusted my gloves and slid a silk-protected finger under the seal. The letter was direct, with no attempt at congeniality. I was to meet with the Guardians—all of them—that evening for dinner. Wow. I knew that four of them were currently in Rome, and one in Johannesburg. Who knew where the other seven were scattered? Their plane tickets must have cost a fortune, to be booked so last-minute. Ah, well. Not like I was worried about them not paying my tuition, or anything. If that bill weren’t paid, it would be because my education was being continued in the Abyss.

Dinner with the Guardians. What a treat. I’d have to find something suitable to wear. Really actually suitable, too. I had shown up to one such a dinner in a black PVC corset and they had sent me home to change. And home was a two hour-flight away. The Guardians have no sense of humor.

And I had nothing to wear. I’d hocked my only dress on Ebay to buy some prime episodes of Dr. Who on DVD. Maybe Jane had something—but oh, yeah, thanks to my stalker friend, Jane hated me now. No way would she help me. I had another option, of course. Not that I particularly liked it.

I suantered back into homeroom just as the class was being dismissed. Stick had one strap of his backpack slung across his shoulder. I snagged the other and yanked till he faced me.

“What did you tell them?” I snarled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“That’s bullshit. The Guardians arranged it so I have all my classes with you now. And I’ve got to go to dinner with them tonight, and I’ve got nothing to wear, and it’s your fault.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m going, too.”

I growled, “Don’t make me punch you in the head again.”

Stick said nothing.

“Come on,” I said finally, pulling him out of the academic building and toward my dorm. “I need a dress, and you owe me. And if they off me in the Charles Allis, I’m gonna come back and kick your ass.”

Stick finally stopped when we reached the doorway where the lounge ended and the girls’ dorm rooms began—the point beyond which no man stepped.

“We can’t just leave campus in the middle of the day,” he protested. “We’re missing French.” French. I tell you. This is what my life had come to.

“Yeah, well, you can catch up on your beret-wearing later. Right now, we’re going to the mall.”

“Can’t you borrow something?” he asked plaintively.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Then I bit out, “Oh, yeah, just let me call all my many girlfriends together for an emergency makeover.” That shut him up. “You got your wallet? Cash?” I continued.

“Oh, no. I am not aiding your delinquency and paying for it too,” Stick said.

“For the bus, moron.” You humans can be very stupid, but the males of the species are definitely the worst.

I barrelled on before he could recover from that. “And I’m just betting that the Guardians hooked you up with a company credit card, so to speak. They cut mine in two after the police brought me home, so I need your plastic.”

He rolled his eyes. He asked if Jane wouldn’t lend me something. He suggested I have the Gurdians send a dress to the school. And finally, he heaved a stage-worthy sigh.

As he pulled off his tie and blazer and unbuttoned his top two buttons, so that he wouldn’t look quite so repressed at the mall, I said approvingly, “Now, that’s what I like to see.”

The tips of his ears turned red.

“That sounded a lot less kinky in my head,” I assured. I patted his shoulder platonically, grabbed his things, and headed for my room to find a mall-worthy outfit and my wallet.

“He ratted you out, and now you’re taking him shopping?” Grigori asked snidely from my dresser. “You are a very silly little girl. You know he’s probably behind the black magic you’re being set up for too, you know.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I snapped back. “What do you want me to do about it? Kill him?”

“There’s an idea,” the fish said.

“Yeah, well, I can’t do anything to him until he signs the reciept for my dress. Until then, you can just shut up.” I dropped Stick’s blazer over the tank, effectively obscuring my creepy pet’s view of me changing out of my (modified) school uniform. In my black long-sleeved t-shirt and black jeans, I still didn’t look all that different. But at least nothing was emblazoned with the stupid Galmon Academy crest. I shoved my tragically empty wallet into my back pocket and headed back toward the lounge, taking care to lock my door securely. I was feeling a little paranoid at the moment—understandable, I think you’ll agree, since I was pretty sure the people who raised me wanted me dead, I had a stalker who knew my secret identity, a blond-obsessed pervy demon in my closet, and a best friend who hated my guts. And Stick, of course. He was a big source of problems right now.

I supposed Grigori was right. It would really be more convenient if Stick were just . . . gone. With skills like mine, I could probably convince him to walk off a bridge, or in front of a train or something. There wouldn’t be any way to trace it back to me. But that option seemed a bit messy. Blood made me kind of queasy, and the thought of Stick’s blood in particular made my stomach twist. Maybe I’d hold off on that until I knew exactly what he’d told the Guardians.

“So, spill. What information have you been feeding my loving Guardians?” I said as soon as I reached him. At least he had the decency to look at his shoes. “And why? Why would you do that to me?”

I had said that last bit aloud, didn’t I? Well, crap.

“Look, Cam. I got into some stuff that I shouldn’t have, a few years ago. I was smart, I was good with books and computers, and I was pissed off at my evangelical father. I started looking into dark stuff, stuff I wasn’t supposed to know about. Black magic, mostly demonology. Don’t look at me like that. I never practiced, and I’m not behind the black magic going on here at Galmon. I just researched. That’s what we scholarly types do.” He sounded a little bit wry at that.

He continued, “It really hit the fan when my senior thesis got picked up by a publishing company, put in some anthology or other. Let’s say my father was a bit upset, and leave it at that. When the Guardians came to recruit me, my father was happy to see me go, as long as I never came back. They told him they were offering me a place in a fundamentalist Christian school.” Again one corner of his mouth quirked up humorlessly. “I guess they weren’t lying.”

I forgot to breathe for a minute or two. Finally, I found my voice.

“Senior thesis?” I looked at him. Really, really looked at him. I’ve never been good at judging age, since my dad always looks thirtyish and the Guardians always look old. I’ve never had the opportunity to see how people change physically as they age.

“Yeah. I look a bit young.”

“Just how not young are you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Twenty.”

I whistled.

“No wonder you’re getting straight A’s.” The other side of his mouth lifted to join the other in a ghost of a real smile.

“Well, if we’re going to get to the mall, find something, and get back in time for me to get ready before the car picks us up, we’d better go,” I said.

“Just for the record, I still don’t like this,” Stick said.

“Just for the record, you shouldn’t,” chimed in a third voice.

Oh, crap. Mr. Genal. (That’d be my former British History teacher, for those of you with failing memories.) He really didn’t look like he endorsed our plan to sneak off campus in the middle of the day.

“Mr. Genal, I can explain,” Stick began.

I smiled. “No, allow me.”