The Fake Eye (Time Alchemist) Page 2

  We walked hand in hand until we had to part ways. And over and over I kept telling myself

  I was not falling for Leon Raysburg.

  I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I wasn’t.

  Yeah. Too bad my heart doesn’t agree with me at all.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Emery?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I took a big bite of toast. Jelly dribbled off the bread and I caught them in time with my fingers, licking up the yummy berry substance. I took a good look at my Dad—my best friend and biggest supporter. Ever since he moved down here from our small hometown near Albany, New York, he’s looked so much better. Brighter, even. Maybe it was the sweet Southern air, or the fact that he finally procured a decent full-time job that not only paid well, but came with living quarters and not to mention, we got to see each other every day instead of a short telephone call once a week.

  But even then, he still looked the same. Big, meaty arms that gave you the warmest, tightest hugs, jolly green eyes that matched my own, and red cheeks underneath a 5 o’clock shadow. He replaced his oil stained overalls with light sweaters and tees and he had a pair of heavy looking tan gloves when he worked with the plants.

  Most would be completely embarrassed at having your father work at the same school you go to— especially as a janitor (though I liked to think of him as St. Mary’s trusty part-time groundskeeper-slash-maintenance-man), but I couldn’t have been happier. He was my rock, and my only family. He was my home. For a long, long time it had been just the two of us after my mother had left when I was barely five years old. He was the one who pushed me to go to St. Mary’s, the school that my late grandmother and her family had attended for years and years, a school so elite I thought it would have been impossible to enter.

  But I did get in, thanks to the generosity of a St. Mary’s alumni, and my

  Dad’s hard work. He made sure I met all the requirements it took to fulfill my application, from the right amount of volunteer hours and extracurricular activities, helping me keep my grades up so that I had straight A’s in all my classes. Dad always took time out of his busy schedule (balancing two jobs isn’t easy, you know!) to drive me to school after hours or get to my appointments.

  When I thought I wasn’t good enough, he always convinced me I was.

  So having him here—and having him here on the school grounds—was a daily reminder that I did deserve to be here (despite all the obstacles I had to overcome) and that I would make him proud. And now, he had a first class seat in watching me finally grow and become somebody great.

  Even if I had a secret life he could never, ever know about.

  I gulped down my toast with a glass of icy cold orange juice before answering, “I’m fine, Dad. Really. I know what I’m doing.”

  His brows scrunched down in worry, but he just shook his head. He knew dealing with me was like talking to a brick wall sometimes (and he’d never admit it, but we were both equally stubborn when needed. Sometimes I think that’s all I inherited from him, personality wise: hard working and stubbornness).

  The fresh smell of coffee mixed with mothballs that came from the assortment of boxes that held most of his belongings encased the small room of the teacher apartment where he lived. Despite the wobbly table with a missing leg and boxes that still needed to be unpacked, not to mention the only thing in his mini fridge was a carton of OJ and eggs (he got most of his meals at the cafeteria, like I did), this was more than enough home and comfort for me than my own dorm.

  I saw him shake his head, mumbling under his breath about how I didn’t need to push myself or anything. I sighed, but I couldn’t blame him for being

  worried. Nearly every morning I came back from practice covered in Texas-sized bruises and band aids all over my face and arms. I thought he’d have another heart attack when I came by one morning with a (slightly) sprained wrist.

  “I’m fine Dad,” I persisted, grabbing another piece of toast and slathering it with grape jelly. “I want to do this.” Actually, I needed to do this, but I could never, ever tell him the real reason why. The cover story for him and most of my friends was simple self defense lessons with my dorm mate, and best friend, Dove Raysburg. Dad would have had a heart attack on the spot if he knew that I was secretly meeting with Leon. In the woods. Alone. It didn’t matter if we were actually training. Dad would have glued my butt to a chair to prevent me from having “secret rendezvous affairs” on (though technically off) school grounds.

  The real reason I was busting my butt every morning? And losing?

  (Though we don’t need to mention that!) So I could be prepared to face any alchemist that came my way.

  I stared out the tiny window and nibbled on my food. Who would have thought that only five months ago, my life at St. Mary’s Academy would have turned a complete one-eighty degree twist on me? I had thought the only things I would have to worry about were boy trouble keeping up my straight-A average and avoiding the wrath of the Killer Queen Bees. Heck, the reason I had tried so hard to even qualify for scholarship is because I knew St. Mary’s would put me on the right track to a good education and maybe even an Ivy League college one day; I could get so much from St. Mary’s recommendations than I ever could at that rinky-dink high school I used to go to back in Albany. I had come to St. Mary’s a naïve girl, ready to learn and become someone great when…well, life got in the way.

  Things just don’t work out, no matter how much you plan them too.

  I, Emery Miller, had a secret life only two other people on campus knew about.

  I was an alchemist.

  And let me tell you, this wasn’t some sort of story where I’m miraculously saved by a handsome knight and find that I have the power to save the world from the Evil Ones and we all live Happily Ever After with all capital letters. Oh no, not even close. Although I did defeat a pretty badass alchemist a couple months ago…with the help of two others: a cute Iron Alchemist, Leon, and his older sister, Dove, the former Blood Alchemist…my story is far from a perfect fairy tale.

  See, when I had mentioned that Leon was trying to kill me again I wasn’t really joking. He really did kill me.

  It had started when I just wanted to take a seemingly harmless shortcut through the woods behind my dorm. I never expected to find two people my own age fighting to the death with weapons. Actually, everything happened so fast that I don’t remember a lot of detail, but one thing is for certain: when I had jumped in the way to save one of the alchemists, I had been killed.

  Sounds short and simple, right? Wrong.

  By some miracle, I had been saved. Leon’s older sister, the one who he had intended to hurt ( not kill—that was all just a huge misunderstanding!), had sacrificed her own alchemy to save my life. And she fixed the hole in my heart…with a pocket watch. By doing that, Dove had “awakened” my own alchemic core—something every person is born with. So yes, my Dad and even my friends Karin and Samantha, and heck, maybe even my French II teacher Ms. Dubois and the grumpy old lunch lady who a lways gave me the creamed corn when I consistently ask for green beans, could all be alchemists.

  So, not only was I an alchemist, I had a heart that could stop my own

  time any minute, and there was no way of telling how long I would live. Dove had become my mentor and my special friend, teaching me the ways of alchemy and how to harness my powers. We both worked together tirelessly to discover my own alchemic element, as well as finding the one thing that could possibly save my life—a piece of powerful item called the Elixir.

  “Emery?”

  I snapped forward, accidentally dropping my toast jelly side down on my favorite pair of clean jeans. “Wha-huh? Oh, darn it!” I scowled as I peeled off the toast, tossing it half heartedly on the plate. The leg of my denim jeans was covered with big globs of purple jam. At least it didn’t get on my nice purple striped cardigan. Even better, it didn’t get on my St. Mary’s uniform (thank goodness it was Sunday); do you
know how much those things costs? I had to treat mine like it was a priceless golden heirloom every single day of the school year. Some days it felt like I put more into cleaning, pressing and ironing that uniform than my own studying!

  I reached for the paper towels, scrubbing it off like my life depended on it. I had to pick today of all days to act all stupid and clumsy, didn’t I? I thought, as Dad handed me a damp towel, placing his ceramic coffee mug that read “#1 Dad!” on the table.

  “Emery,” he said, after the mess had been cleaned off, “I’m worried about you.”

  “Aren’t you always worried about me?” I asked, immediately wishing I could bite back those words. Instead, I stared out the kitchen window, running the towel through the water until my fingers started to prune.

  I heard Dad give a heavy sigh, the kind of sigh that reminded me of Leon…how heavy his heart was burdened by something he couldn’t control, even though it wasn’t his fault. Yes, Leon had killed me—and yes, he had tried to hurt Dove. But he changed. He had risked his life to save me a couple of

  times and he has honestly (and is still trying) to patch things up with Dove. I couldn’t take it.

  I turned around, wringing the towel in my hands. “I’m sorry, Dad…”

  “Oh, Emery,” he said, standing up from his chair. Instantly, I flung the towel back into the sink and hugged him. His voice broke a little as he spoke, and I prayed he wasn’t going to cry again because of me. “I just worry. That’s what father ’s do; they worry about their baby girl.”

  “I’m not a baby anymore,” I said lightly, “I know what I’m doing.”

  “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

  “I know.”

  But there are some things I just can’t. Dad, of all people, could understand that. After my mother left, he had kept so many things locked inside of him—his emotions and his thoughts and, more importantly, himself; always putting his only daughter first, working two (sometimes three) part-time jobs to pay for school books, good clothes, fixing up Uncle Ben’s old car without question…

  But now he had a good job here, where I could see him every morning.

  He did good, honest work and a lot of the teachers seemed to like him. Now that he didn’t have to work those odd midnight to seven a.m. shifts anymore, I’d never seen him look so brighter.

  How could I just take all that away with the truth—a truth he probably wouldn’t even believe?

  We stood there, listening to the drip-drip-drip of the faucet and the hands of the wall clock tick away, until the clock tower let out eight echoing drones that seemed to cut into my bones, reminding me that my life…no matter how much I wanted it for myself or my Dad…was never going to be normal again.

  How could I even blame him for worrying? I tried to picture myself in his shoes: slumped over on Uncle Ben’s couch, trying to get a few hours of sleep until his shift at the gas station. And then, all of a sudden the phone rings, and it’s your daughter ’s school, telling you she’s in the hospital after being found beaten up in a cemetery My heart would have died right there on the spot if I had heard that, but my Dad was a lot braver than I knew, and he immediately came down with nothing but his toothbrush and a white trash bag full of clothes.

  “I love you, Dad,” I said, squeezing him tighter, “I promise I won’t let you down.”

  “Emery, you’ve never let me down. Not even once.”

  Sometimes I wondered if I got my fighting spirit from Dad. And when I think about it, I smile. Because it’s undoubtedly true.

  CHAPTER 3

  Like most Sunday mornings, with a large majority of the students attending Sunday prayer at the auditorium (or sleeping in on a precious day off), the brisk walk from my Dad’s small place to my dorm was calm and peaceful.

  And when it was quiet, it was usually the best time to think.

  Or rather, things that I shouldn’t be thinking about. Like, how my hand still feels all funny and tingly—the hand that Leon had held only an hour ago.

  The feel of his chest pressed against mine; staring into his liquid eyes…

  It’s not like it was wrong to think these things. But Leon was just a friend. A mentor. He was like the anti-hero in my story, or a black knight coming to the rescue. Well, we didn’t exactly meet under normal circumstances, but still. I knew he was a good person, inside and out. He was just…rough around the edges. Aren’t we all?

  But still. I can’t fall for him. Not just…yet anyway. Though my heart yearned for it, my brain advised against it. And the last time I listened to my heart over my brain it came out littered in battle scars that still bruised with every breath. A solid reminder that every rose has thorns.

  I let out a loud groan, kicking an innocent lamppost that had magically appeared in my path (proof that the longer I concentrated on stupid things the less I was aware of the world around me), wishing that God would give me a sign or something. Why were boys so complicated? Heck, they were ten times more complicated than alchemy—or maybe I was just a certified idiot.

  And then I saw my sign, in the form of a very slim and tall girl walking my way, her nose buried in a book. Even from this distance, I could see that her hair was a pale blonde, almost white; her eyes sparkling ice blue. She walked like she was royalty—it seemed like everything, inanimate or not, jumped out

  of her path to make way for a queen. Though it was stifling hot this morning, she wore a form fitting gray sweater dress over black tights; an outfit I was well aware of (since it did come out of my closet), and made my own casual get up seem like I picked it out from the garbage.

  Most wouldn’t have even noticed the strange red markings on her hands; almost like blood red veins crawling outside of her skin, swirling up over her fingers and hands and gliding up her arms.

  She was a girl as graceful as a…

  “Dove!” I exclaimed, rushing over to give my best friend, roommate, and teacher a great big hug. It must be a full moon, because the normally calm and attentive girl gave out a startled yelp when I almost tackled her to the ground. That should have been my first clue, really; scaring Dove, who had the reflexes of a lion, with such ease.

  Her book clattered to the ground, landing spine up. A brief shot of horror spiked through me as I reached down to retrieve it before any of the pages got torn or bent. But Dove seemed to have the same idea, reaching out just as I did. Our heads collided with an echoing smack, and I fell flat on my butt, wondering if it was possible to suffer a concussion from two blows to the head because of Emery Miller ’s Clumsiness 101.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” I mumbled, laughter escaping my throat. During the collision I had bit my tongue, and it hurt like hell! I tried again to reach for the book, but Dove (who had also landed on her bum, but obviously in a more elegant way than I), had locked her grip on it first.

  “Oh, it’s really alright,” Dove said, tucking a piece of paper into the book and shutting it gently. “I should have paid more attention to where I was going.” Not a piece of her golden white hair was out of place, though her skin did look oddly flushed. That should have been clue number two. Dove looked nervous.

  And Dove was only nervous when there was something to hide. From me.

  But I didn’t push it. We grasped each other ’s arms, helping each other up (and almost toppling over again when my bad foot almost shot out). Dove tucked the book under her arm, in a way were I couldn’t see the title. Hey, I notice these things, okay? That should have been clue number three.

  “How did training with Leon go this morning?” Dove asked nonchalantly as we walked side by side back to the dorms. I gave her the usual ho-hum: It went fine, I got my butt kicked again, etcetera, etcetera. Though I did want to mention (read: brag) about how I did get the final blow at the end. Dove seemed very pleased with my report, like a mother watching her child score the goal of the winning soccer game.

  “You’re doing very well in such a short time,” she said, “But please don’t push yourself too much.”


  “I won’t,” I replied, stretching my arms above my head. “I really like it.

  I feel like I’m improving my skills just a little bit. I think that if there was another ‘attack’ I’d be ready.”

  “Well, let’s hope there won’t be one for quite some time…” Dove’s voice trailed off, and she cast her eyes away, staring at the small woods that bordered St. Mary’s grounds. If we veered right and walked straight we would probably reach the sight were our meeting happened: where I had seen Leon and Dove fighting with alchemic weapons, were Leon had the upper hand and had knocked Dove into the forest, and how I had jumped in front of her to save her life.

  And then she saved my life in return. I owed so much to Dove. If it wasn’t for her selflessness, I would be dead. She had given up her most cherished thing: her alchemy. How could I really, truly repay her?

  See, although Dove is approximately my height (though she is only taller by couple of centimeters!), she is two years older than Leon and me. In fact, she and Leon aren’t really brother and sister…they are half siblings. They share the same Dad, but have two different mothers. That’s all I really know about their past…except when they were children, they were taken in by a very powerful—and immortal—alchemist and traveled all over the country.

  Something big happened, and last summer, around the start of September, they made their way to St. Mary’s over some stupid argument (more on that later).

  I’m losing track. Okay.

  Dove may not be an alchemist anymore, but she is hella tough. She can run fast and far and never be out of breath. Sometimes I think she isn’t human (kidding!), the way she moves with the grace and power of an Olympic gymnast. And not only that, but she is cool and calm, never caving under pressure. She is patient and kind and nurturing, just like a mother. There’s an air of elegance around her, sometimes making her unapproachable. If we had ever met under different (and by different I mean normal) circumstances, I would be too scared to try and befriend her.