Free Conspiracy Boy (Angel Academy) by Cecily White

“Shush.”
    Seamus McRoy had served as the features editor of Guardian Times since we were kids, and I knew he’d covered some major stories. He’d actually interviewed my mom a few times in her heyday.
    “If he’s here, it means someone’s got an agenda.” Jack’s brow furrowed. “Looks like Enforcement came, too.”
    “Yeah, but Jack—”
    “Call me Mr. Smith-Hailey,” he reminded me, moving his hand an inch farther away. “I’ll try not to touch you too much. You do the same, okay? Luc’ll be here soon, so if you start to feel anything glowy or if your allergies act up—”
    “Mr. Smith-Hailey?”
    Jack stopped.
    “This is a peace summit in a heavily warded room. What’s the likelihood I’ll sneeze up a rift and we’ll end up accidentally channeling?”
    He seemed to consider for a second, then said, “I’m afraid to answer that.”
    “Touché,” I whispered. “For the record, if you let them execute me this time, I will carve out your kidneys, summon you back to life, then torture you until you correct it. Are we clear?”
    Jack smiled, making my belly do giddy, little somersaults. “That sounds like preferential treatment.”
    “Indeed.”
    I watched his gaze play over my face for a second, the pulse in his neck spiking. This couldn’t be easy for him, either, keeping his distance, pretending all the time. “Amelie,” he whispered.
    “It’s okay. Later,” I promised.
    He exhaled deeply and nodded. “Later.”
    As we entered the conference room, I noticed it’d been strung with white-lit holiday greenery and silver bows. The garlands lent the air an intoxicating musk of pine and cedar, along with something sweet—baking cookies and peppermint canes.
    “Jackson Smith-Hailey. Good to see you, boy.”
    “Good morning, Elder Horowitz.” Jack greeted an older man in a long cloak. “Thank you for coming.”
    The man’s hand was extended, and I could see the faded outlines of old glyph marks up his forearms. Around his wrists, he wore ceremonial cuffs that covered the symbols tattooed there. I had to fight the urge to curtsy like I did when I was a child.
    “Likewise.” He nodded. “Amelie, how is your father? Well, I trust?”
    “I assume so,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Akira’s rules.”
    “Well”—the man smiled—“when you see him, tell him I asked after him.”
    “Will do.”
    Maybe it was the Christmas decor, but something about this man brought back images of grown-ups laughing together, shared meals over a roaring fire—all the good things I’d held on to from childhood.
    Before Horowitz could say anything more, Henry stood at the front of the conference table, his hair in the usual disarray. The pile of paper seemed to have migrated across the table and now littered the entire surface in snowy scraps. At least it was off the floor.
    I still had trouble seeing Henry in an authority position. Since I arrived at St. Michael’s nearly a decade ago, Henry had always been the archivist. And trust me, he was perfect for the job. Seriously. The man spent his days surrounded by books—browsing them, looking up random pieces of info that might help a student ace a test or kill a rare and deadly demon. If he talked to one or two people in a day, that was mega-social for him.
    Now, practically overnight, he’d become the person everyone complained to. Constantly.
    When the toilets overflowed, when the library got infested by a poltergeist, when demons ransacked the cafeteria during fall break, Henry heard about it. The poor guy not only got called to witness every wretched, deadly catastrophe in the southern district, he also had to deal with endless unrealistic demands that he fix it.
    It totally made me appreciate what Smalley must have endured.
    “Um, ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention.” Henry cleared his throat, sounding stressed. “In just a moment, we will be convening over the matter of Guardian Bennett and her role in the