Free The Eighth Guardian by Meredith McCardle

Violet says in a tone that makes it clear that she just wants to get out of here already. She has one foot outside.
    “Violet?”
    Her neck cranes back around. I know I shouldn’t ask. It’s showing them my number one weakness, giving them something with which to manipulate me. I should keep my head down, follow orders, and climb the ranks. It’s what my dad deserves. But another part of my heart won’t listen.
    “I had—have—a boyfriend.”
    “Abraham,” she interrupts. “Yeah, I know. I read your file. What about it?”
    Her tone rubs me the wrong way. It’s combative and off-putting, and it doesn’t look as if I’m going to be making friends with any of the girls here. Strike that. Considering my only other option is Yellow, I think it’s safe to say I’m definitely not going to be making any female friends here.
    And then Violet confirms this fact. She reaches up and tucks a purple hair behind her ear. “What are you, one of those girls? The ones who think the world revolves around them because they have a boyfriend?”
    My head snaps back. “That’s not at all what I just said. And I’m not one of those girls.”
    “Good to know.” Violet narrows her dark-brown eyes. “Because you really need to forget about that boyfriend of yours. That’s in the past. You’re Annum Guard. Well, for now, at least.”
    The implication is obvious. She wants me to fail. She doesn’t want me to be in the Guard.
    Well, screw her. Screw Yellow. I forget my dad for a second and take a step closer to her.
    “Do you feel threatened by me?”
    “Why would I?” She laughs, although I can tell it’s a nervous laugh. Good. “You don’t belong here. You’re an outsider.”
    I raise my eyebrows. “Outsider?”
    Violet’s face falls. She’s said something she shouldn’t have. I’m an outsider. What does that mean? I’m getting the feeling from Violet that this organization is very . . . cult-like.
    “Stay in your room,” Violet tells me, and I laugh. She’s sending me to my room? But then she points to a camera hanging over the stairwell and to another one in the corner by the massive window in the hallway, and I can’t believe I didn’t notice them before. “They’ll know it if you don’t.”
    I shrug, like, I’ll think about it, even though I’d be foolish to try to leave. I step back into my new bedroom. “Thanks for your warning. I’m sure it comes from a place of love and concern.” And then I shut the door.
    A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s four in the morning. Ugh. I can feel the physical exhaustion straining my limbs, even though my brain feels as if it’s been shot with adrenaline. I yawn.
    I flop down onto the bed but almost immediately sit up. I want to look around before I pass out. For kicks I open the rest of the dresser drawers. Shirts, jeans, sweats—they’re all there. My old, dingy workout pants are hanging on the left side of the closet, which makes no sense—who hangs up yoga pants?—while the right side is full of a bunch of clothes I’ve never seen in my life. There’s a lot of pastel, a long tweed skirt that looks like it would make me itch for days, and a bunch of fabric that doesn’t seem very breathable. Maybe that’s Violet’s leftover stuff. Whatever. I’ll burn it as soon as they give me match privileges.
    I wander into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub. I turn the knobs on the tap and let the warm water spill down over my fingers. There’s a faint smell of lavender in the room.
    I rip off the Peel tie that’s still hanging around my waist and pull the torn dress over my head. I slip off my shoes and socks and kick them and the tie into the bedroom. The dress gets stuffed into the trash can under the sink.
    The water is bordering on being too hot, so I turn the cold water knob a little more as I sink down into the tub. I’m probably still in Boston, unless I somehow passed through a vortex in the stairwell that unknowingly whisked me