The Golden Lily

It didn't help the situation that I had an inbox full of messages from the gang in Palm Springs. Normally, I checked my e-mail automatically on my phone when I was out and about.

Now, in my hotel room, staring at the various messages, I found myself filled with doubt. Were these truly professional? Were they too friendly? Did they blur the lines of Alchemist protocol?

After seeing what had happened to Keith, it was more obvious than ever that it didn't take much to get in trouble with my organization.

One message was from Jill, with a subject line reading: Angeline... sigh. This wasn't a surprise to me, and I didn't bother reading it yet. Angeline Dawes, a dhampir recruited to be Jill's roommate and provide an extra layer of security, had had a little trouble fitting into Amberwood.

She was always in trouble for something, and I knew whatever it was this time, there was nothing I could do about it right now.

Another message was from Angeline herself. I also didn't read it. The subject was: READ

THIS! SO FUNNY! Angeline had only recently discovered e-mail. She had not, so it seemed, discovered how to turn off the caps-lock key. She also had no discrimination when it came to forwarding jokes, financial scams, or virus warnings. And speaking of that last one... we'd had to finally install child protection software on her laptop, in order to block her from certain websites and ads. That had come after she'd accidentally downloaded four viruses.

It was the last e-mail in my inbox that gave me pause. It was from Adrian Ivashkov, the only person in our group who wasn't posing as a student at Amberwood Preparatory School.

Adrian was a twenty-one-year-old Moroi, so it would have been kind of a stretch passing him off in high school. Adrian was along because he and Jill had a psychic bond that had been inadvertently created when he'd used his magic to save her life. All Moroi wielded some type of elemental magic, and his was spirit - a mysterious element tied to the mind and healing. The bond allowed Jill to see Adrian's thoughts and emotions, which was troubling to both of them.

His staying near her helped them work out some of the bond's kinks. Also, Adrian had nothing better to do.

His message's subject was: SEND HELP IMMEDIATELY. Unlike Angeline, Adrian knew the rules of capitalization and was simply going for dramatic effect. I also knew that if I had any doubts about which of my messages related to my job, this was hands-down the most nonprofessional one in the set. Adrian wasn't my responsibility. Yet, I clicked the message anyway.

Day 24. Situation is growing worse. My captors continue to find new and horrific ways to torture me. When not working, Agent Scarlet spends her days examining fabric swatches for bridesmaid dresses and going on about how in love she is. This usually causes Agent Boring Borscht to regale us with stories of Russian weddings that are even more boring than his usual ones. My attempts at escape have been thwarted thus far. Also, I am out of cigarettes. Any assistance or tobacco products you can send will be greatly appreciated.

- Prisoner 24601

I began smiling in spite of myself. Adrian sent me some kind of message like this nearly every day. This summer, we had learned that those who were forcibly turned Strigoi could be turned back with the use of spirit. It was still a tricky, complicated process... made more so by the fact that there were so few spirit users. Even more recent events had suggested that those restored from being Strigoi could never be turned again. That had electrified Alchemists and Moroi alike. If there was some magical way to prevent Strigoi conversion, freaks like Liam would no longer be a problem.

That was where Sonya Karp and Dimitri Belikov came in - or, as Adrian called them in his angst-filled letters, "Agent Scarlet" and "Agent Boring Borscht." Sonya was a Moroi; Dimitri was a dhampir. Both had once been Strigoi and had been saved by spirit magic. The two of them had come to Palm Springs last month to work with Adrian in a sort of think tank to figure out what might protect against Strigoi turning. It was an extremely important task, one that could have huge ramifications if successful. Sonya and Dimitri were some of the hardest working people I knew - which didn't always mesh with Adrian's style.

A lot of their work involved slow, painstaking experiments - many involving Eddie Castile, a dhampir who was also undercover at Amberwood. He was serving as the control subject since, unlike Dimitri, Eddie was a dhampir untouched by spirit or a Strigoi history. There wasn't much I could do to help Adrian with his frustration over his research group - and he knew it. He just liked playing up the drama and venting to me. Mindful of what was essential and nonessential in the Alchemist world, I was on the verge of deleting the message, but...

One thing made me hesitate. Adrian had signed his e-mail with a reference to Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. It was a book about the French Revolution that was so thick, it could easily double as a weapon. I had read it in both French and English. Considering Adrian had once gotten bored while reading a particularly long menu, I had a hard time imagining he'd read the Hugo book in any language. So how did he know the reference? It doesn't matter, Sydney, a stern Alchemist voice said inside my head. Delete it. It's irrelevant. Adrian's literary knowledge (or lack thereof) is no concern of yours.

But I couldn't do it. I had to know. This was the kind of detail that would drive me crazy. I wrote back with a quick message: How do you know about 24601? I refuse to believe you read the book. You saw the musical, right?

I hit send and received a response back from him almost immediately: SparkNotes.

Typical. I laughed out loud and immediately felt guilty. I shouldn't have responded. This was my personal e-mail account, but if the Alchemists ever felt the need to investigate me, they'd have no qualms about accessing it. This kind of thing was damning, and I deleted the e-mail exchange - not that it mattered. No data was ever truly lost.

By the time I landed in Palm Springs at seven the next morning, it was painfully obvious that I had surpassed my body's limits to subsist on caffeine. I was too exhausted. No amount of coffee would help anymore. I nearly fell asleep at the airport's curb, waiting for my ride.

When it arrived, I didn't notice until I heard my name called.

Dimitri Belikov jumped out of a blue rental car and strode toward me, grabbing hold of my suitcase before I could utter a word. A few nearby women stopped talking to stare at him admiringly.

I got to my feet. "You don't have to do that," I said, even though he was already loading my suitcase into the trunk.

"Of course I do," he said, his words lightly touched with a Russian accent. He gave me a small smile. "You looked like you were asleep."

"I should be so lucky," I said, getting into the passenger side. Even if I'd been wide awake, I knew Dimitri would've taken my suitcase anyway. That's how he was, a lost remnant of chivalry in the modern world, ever-ready to help others.