Free The Eighth Guardian by Meredith McCardle Page B

I wrap one around my wet hair, pull on purple fleece pants and a T-shirt, and tumble into bed. Abe. Think about Abe. But an image of Tyler Fertig flashes in my mind right before I close my eyes, and then my body shuts down.
     
    Bang! Bang! Bang!
    I gasp and bolt up in bed. Someone’s knocking on the door. I push out of bed, and my palm lands on the towel.
    Dammit, did I fall asleep with wet hair?
    I pull open the door. Yellow stands before me. Of course she does. She’s wearing a cardigan, a miniskirt, tights, and boots. Huge diamond studs hang from her earlobes. Her blond hair is perfectly coiffed again, pulled back with a wide headband. And I’m wearing pajamas and have a major case of bedhead.
    Yellow wrinkles her nose when she sees me and shoves a folded note into my hand. “Breakfast is at seven sharp. Alpha doesn’t like it if anyone is late. It completely slipped my mind until now that I was supposed to tell you that. Oops.”
    I glance at the clock on the dresser. 6:58. Seriously? Doesn’t anyone believe in a good night’s sleep?
    I slam the door in her face and throw open my dresser drawers. The note gets plunked on top of the dresser unopened. I grab the first sweater and pair of jeans I see, then spend all of ten seconds brushing my teeth with such force I’m surprised my gums don’t start bleeding. I shove my feet into my sneakers, stepping on the backs rather than taking the extra second required to slip my heels into them.
    I pull my still-damp hair into a messy bun as I fly down the stairs. I’m pretty sure it’s 7:00 on the dot, but I’m the last person to arrive in the dining room. Everyone else is seated, and a man dressed like a waiter is pouring coffee at all the place settings while a woman follows behind him with orange juice.
    It’s clear there’s a hierarchy here at the table, too. Alpha sits at the head, and then it trickles down from there. Epsilon is absent, but Zeta sits on Alpha’s right, and Red is on his left. Then it crisscrosses from there, from Orange to Yellow, all the way down to the one empty seat at the very end of the table.
    But the weird part—and I mean bizarre —is that half the table look like they’re waiting backstage before a community theater production. Zeta has on a brown coat, white tights, and a pair of short pants that puff out just after his knees. There’s a powdered wig sitting next to him on the table, which just seems unsanitary. Violet is wearing an electric-blue minidress with jelly shoes and a bunch of bangle bracelets. Her purple hair is teased so high it stands at least six inches above her head. Tyler—aka Blue—has on a suit with high-waisted pants and serious pinstriping. And Indigo is wearing drab gray pants with a vest and dress shoes, and these funny-looking black-and-white shoes. My mouth falls open as I scan the room.
    “Yellow,” Alpha says with a serious voice as he pours a dab of cream into his coffee. “I thought I asked you to make sure Iris knew how to dress this morning.”
    Yellow sits up straight in her chair. “I did, sir. I wrote her dress assignment on a piece of paper and hand delivered it this morning. I guess she ignored it.”
    I blink. That folded note Yellow shoved into my hand is sitting untouched on my dresser.
    “I was rushed for time this morning,” I say, then wince. I hate excuses. Detest them. If you make a mistake, own up, accept the consequences, and move on. Yet here I am, whining like a second grader. I wait for Alpha to call me out.
    “You can change after breakfast,” he says. “Please sit.”
    Is he mad? I can’t tell. I slide into the empty seat next to Indigo but keep my eyes trained on Tyler. He’s staring at his empty plate, but he has to feel me staring at him. Come on, Tyler, look up. I need to talk to him. I haven’t even fully scooted my chair in when the man with the coffee appears at my side. It smells like hazelnut. Gross. I hate flavored coffee. And not just because my mom loves