The Guardians Chronicles

The cupboard was dark.

One thin blade of light cut through a hairline crack in the wooden door, catching dust motes in a trembling, golden column. The musty smell of old winter coats wrapped around her like a damp blanket. She hugged her knees, pressed them to her chest, and squeezed her eyes shut.

If she cried, it would make the burning worse. If she sneezed, they’d hear.

“I will not sneeze. I will not cry. IwillnotsneezeIwillnotcry,” she whispered into the wool.

Fear of being found warred with a blinding hunger for revenge. Flashes of jeering faces and a rock arcing through the air looped behind her eyelids. She touched her swollen lip with the back of her hand. The bleeding had stopped. The throbbing hadn’t.

“Nagwa, I need you,” she choked. “You were right. Magick doesn’t belong at school. Please… please take me away from here.” She bit down hard to stop the rising sob.

The cupboard door slammed open, exploding light into her tiny hiding place.

“Got you, Devil’s child!” A shrill voice sliced the air.

Sister Julia.

The nun’s fingers clamped around her ear and yanked. Pain blossomed white-hot along the side of her head as she was dragged down the passage. The corridor seemed endless, dim, and full of watching eyes. Girls lined the way, whispering behind hands, giggling, recoiling, staring.

Every snicker, every hissed insult landed harder than the nun’s grip.

---

Keira clawed her way up from the nightmare.

Her eyes flew open, lungs straining. She couldn’t move. Her legs and arms were tangled in sweat-damp sheets, trapping her like the cupboard walls once had. She forced herself to inhale slowly, then again, until the roaring in her ears dulled.

She thrashed free of the twisted bedding and collapsed back onto the pillow, hand spread over her racing heart.

It had been years since that particular nightmare visited. St. Catherine’s had never exactly been a fairy tale, but some memories still had teeth. The day with the raven, the rock, and Sister Julia’s “Devil’s child” hiss had carved itself deep into her subconscious.

Her parents had sent her to St. Catherine’s when she was six. That’s what well-off families did, apparently—ship daughters off to boarding school so they could grow into “ladies of good standing.” Keira, unfortunately, had never been particularly lady-like.

It also didn’t help that a breeze always seemed to rise when she got angry. Or that a black raven liked to perch on the tree outside her second-floor window. Or that her roommates had seen her talking to him, calling him Nagwa, begging him to take her home.

On that day, after two years of taunts and side-eyes and whispered devil-girl, something in her finally snapped.

It had been lunchtime. First, the harsh kruk-kruk of Nagwa’s call, then the girls’ excited squeals. He must have been dozing in the branches when the rock hit him. He tumbled from the tree, stunned, flapping desperately on the ground.

Keira had shoved her way through the circling girls and dropped to her knees, covering his trembling body with her own.

“Who did this?” she whispered, voice shaking. “Who did this?”

Her fingers brushed his feathers and the world tilted.

Her vision shuddered, drained of colour, replaced by a wavering, monochrome scene. She looked down at a small, smug face from above—Isobel Montgomery—arm extended, rock in hand. A throw. A crack of pain.

The connection snapped. Keira surged to her feet, her scream slicing through the choking ring of giggles. The sound alone silenced them faster than Sister Julia’s glare ever had.

A wind rose out of nowhere, moaning through the trees, bending branches.

“Isobel,” Keira hissed.

“Yes?” A perfect blonde girl stepped forward, blue eyes wide with practiced innocence.

“You,” Keira pointed at the raven at her feet, words lost to fury.

“Yes,” Isobel said sweetly. “Birds carry disease, didn’t you know? Look at it; we should just get rid of it.”

Keira didn’t see the second rock in Isobel’s hand, but when the girl raised her arm and threw, Keira lunged to shield Nagwa. Pain exploded in her mouth as the rock caught her instead. She barely registered the taste of blood. Only the metallic flood of adrenaline and the roaring, blistering rage racing through her.

She raised her arms and the wind howled in answer.

Lightning arced and cracked across the school grounds, wild and brilliant. Girls screamed and scattered as skirts whipped around their legs and hair flew about their faces while Keira stood at the centre of the storm.

The next thing she remembered was kneeling on the grass, cradling Nagwa.

“Go home,” she whispered to him, tears mixing with rain. “You’re not safe around me.”

Time blurred again. Then the dark cupboard. Sister Julia’s grip. The tight-lipped Mother Superior. The storm written off as a “freak occurrence.” The Devil’s work dismissed with a shaky cross and a muttered prayer.

No punishment, but that was the night the nightmare started.

---

Keira pushed herself to sitting and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted. A wave of dizziness rolled through her, nausea biting at her throat.

An image of a man’s terrified eyes flashed in her mind, last night’s alley, last night’s wind.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, dropping her head into her hands and winced as she touched her throbbing cheek.

“Keira! You awake? You said you wanted an early start,” Alison’s voice called through the door. A brisk knock followed. “Coffee’s ready!”

“Yes! Thanks, I’m coming,” Keira replied, forcing her voice steady.

She shuffled into the en-suite bathroom and gripped the basin, leaning heavily on her arms. The girl in the mirror looked like she’d been dragged through three different nightmares and dropped there as a joke. Her skin was chalk white beneath a tangle of dark hair, shadows pooled under her eyes, and a spectacular bruise was blooming high on her cheekbone.

She exhaled slowly and stared at a tiny crack in the porcelain, as if she could anchor herself there. Her head throbbed. Her chest felt tight.

“Forget it, Keira,” she whispered. “He won’t remember. No one saw you. You couldn’t help it.”

She repeated the words like a mantra. Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth.

Her pulse slowed. The panic receded enough to let her breathe. She straightened and met her own gaze again. She still looked pale, but the haunted wildness was gone from her eyes.

“Nothing a shower and a shovel full of concealer can’t fix,” she muttered.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged showered, dressed, and painted into some approximation of “normal.” Her hair was tamed. Her shoulders, at least from the outside, looked squared.

She walked into the kitchen and sat at the small, round table where Alison was already stationed.

“You look wrecked for someone who bailed on us early,” Alison said, one eyebrow arched as she poured coffee into Keira’s mug.

“And you look suspiciously alive for someone who clearly didn’t sleep at all,” Keira shot back.

“Who needs sleep?” Alison laughed, jumping up and spinning once in the tiny kitchen, auburn curls bouncing, blue eyes bright. “I’ll sleep on the plane. Besides, that party was epic. It’s so good to be done with school!”

Keira smiled, feeling some of the tension in her chest loosen. “Yeah. It was great. My liver, however, is deeply relieved it’s over.”

“Like Sammy would say: ‘Liver-schmiver, you only finish school once.’” Alison rolled her eyes. “Speaking of, she said not to wake her. You know how she gets when she’s short on sleep. We said our goodbyes when we got back.”

“About that…” Keira traced a circle on the table with one finger. “Sorry I left before you guys last night. I was just done. And you know—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Alison waved it off. “You’ve got a busy weekend ahead. We get it.” She gave  Keira’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “Once Sammy’s on her flight tomorrow, you’ll have this place to yourself for a bit. Use it. Figure out how you’re going to break the news to your parents.”

Alison’s parents had bought the Notting Hill flat back when the area was still “bohemian” and “up-and-coming” in estate agent speak. They’d never quite forgiven it for becoming fashionable. They used it as a crash pad on their way through London, visiting Alison at St. Catherine’s. Recently, they’d handed her the keys and Keira and Sammy had been invited in as roommates on the spot.

Keira just hadn’t told her parents yet.

“Honestly, I still think you should do that gap year,” Alison said, leaning in. “You’ve talked about travelling the world since, like, forever. Now is literally the perfect time.”

“Great advice. Unfortunately, my parents disagree,” Keira said dryly. “They’ve already enrolled me for college next term. Dad is ecstatic. He thinks I’m about to step into his legacy. If he could rename the company ‘Wilde & Daughter Architects, Inc.’, he would.”

Alison snorted. “Let Sammy and me at him. We’ll be back soon enough. We’ll mount a full campaign. Tell them you need time to figure things out. That you’re not a blueprint he can draft.”

“I’ll try.” Keira sighed. “I know I keep saying it, but you two are so lucky. Your parents actually support what you want.”

“That’s only because our older siblings already wore them down,” Alison said. “They don’t have the energy for another war. I think they’re just relieved we’re doing something that might eventually pay actual money.”

“Well, you are going to end up at Vogue, and Sammy at Stella McCartney,” Keira said. “Promise me you’ll throw some samples my way when you’re both famous.”

“Please.” Alison grinned. “I’ve got this weird feeling you’ll get there before us.”

They clinked their coffee mugs together in a mock toast. “To fame and fortune,” they cried, then shushed each other and cast guilty looks towards Sammy’s closed bedroom door.

“How about food?” Alison asked. “You look a bit pale. You sure you’re up to shopping?”

“No breakfast, thanks.” Keira’s stomach twisted at the thought. “I’ve got to go anyway. The birthday’s tomorrow. Imagine the meltdown if I pitch up without a present for my mother.”

Alison nodded. “Yeah, she does go nuclear over details.”

“It’s my own fault,” Keira admitted. “Leaving it to the last minute.”

“Are you doing the photos tomorrow?” Alison asked.

“No.” Keira stared into her cup. “Mother’s hired a ‘professional.’”

Alison swore, impressively and unladylike. “You are literally the most professional photographer I know. Have they even seen your work?”

“Just the fluffy stuff. Flowers. Landscapes.” Keira shrugged. “I haven’t shown them the abstracts. It doesn’t matter. This way I can actually sit down and enjoy myself instead of running around like a headless chicken. And Aunt Vic will be there. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“Hmph. We’re revisiting this when I get back,” Alison declared. “In the meantime, don’t forget my invitation. First flight to Toronto after your mother’s party. Come to the lodge. You know my parents adore you. Think about it: summer in the mountains, no responsibilities, probably a bored ski instructor—or two—needing distraction.”

“Stop,” Keira laughed, even as the idea tugged hard. “You know how long it took to get my parents to agree to these couple of weeks here. And I still have to confess that I want to live here permanently. There is no universe in which they let me run off to Canada.”

“Okay, okay.” Alison raised her hands in surrender. “But you know what they say—”

“All work and no play,” Keira finished. “I know. We’ll make a plan. I’ll come visit. Sooner rather than later.”

“Good. I’m holding you to that.” Alison checked the time and shot to her feet. “I really have to go or I’ll miss my flight.”

She hugged Keira tightly, then grabbed the suitcase waiting at the front door. “I’ll call when I get to my parents’.”

“Have fun,” Keira said, walking her to the lift. “And flirt ruthlessly with any underemployed ski instructor you find.”

“I intend to,” Alison grinned, pressing the call button. She paused, studying Keira’s face. “You sure you’re okay? You look… I don’t know. Like you’re somewhere else.”

“I’m fine.” Keira pasted on a smile. “Go. Give my love to your family. Enjoy the holiday.”

The elevator arrived. They squeezed in one last hug before Keira gently nudged her inside.

“Look after yourself,” Alison called as the doors began to close. “And don’t kill my plants!”

“I will. Go!” Keira laughed.

The doors slid shut. The corridor fell quiet.

She stood there a moment, listening to the silence, then turned and walked slowly back into the flat. In the kitchen, she washed the few breakfast dishes, the small domestic task oddly grounding.

She missed them already.

The three of them—she, Alison, and Sammy—had been the closest thing she’d ever had to a pack. Inseparable at school. Summer holidays spent in each other’s homes, whenever their parents could be convinced. Most of those breaks had been with Sammy or Alison’s families; her own mother found the idea of hosting more teenage girls “too stressful.” Keira had never argued.

She smiled faintly, remembering the afternoon in the dorm when Alison’s dream had spilled out in a rush.

“You want to travel,” Alison had said, eyes bright. “And I want to start my own magazine. You can be my travel writer. We’ll take over the world.”

“Woohoo!” Sammy had crowed. “And when my fashion label is huge, you’ll feature my designs. I’ll pay you in free clothes.”

“Obviously,” Alison had agreed. “And you’ll design our wedding dresses.”

They’d all gone quiet at that, staring into some imagined future where they were successful, glamorous, and not constantly broke. Alison and Sammy swore they’d never get married, never be tied down. Keira had played along.

In truth, marriage wasn’t on her list. Neither were children.

It was hard enough hiding what she was from friends. How did you hide it from a partner who slept beside you every night? And what if it was hereditary? The idea of a child waking up from the same nightmares she did made her stomach knot.

She dried her hands and leaned back against the counter.

She still wanted to travel, more than anything. Eighteen. Officially an adult. She could walk away if she chose. Pack a bag, vanish onto a plane.

But not at the cost of burning what little bridge she had to her parents.

The confrontation about her future was coming. She could feel it like static in the air.

Not today, though. Today was about survival—and presents. She had a town to cross, a bruise to hide, and a mother to impress.

The real question was the simplest and most impossible:

What on earth do you buy for a woman who already has everything?