1 I've lost track of sunrises. I used to count them. The first one I really remember was on the winter solstice when I was ten. My mother woke me by running a finger down the bridge of my nose, a spark of excitement in her gray eyes as she urged me out of bed, and my dad helped me into my puffy coat. I shuffled behind them, tired but curious, as we stepped onto grass made crisp by frost and looked up. "That," my mother said, her voice alive with admiration as she pointed to a speck of light, "is the planet Venus. She's brightest at dawn and dusk, the between times." The planet hung low against the horizon, heavy with a cool white light that seemed to grow brighter as the rising sun teased the black sky into blushing shades of crimson and pink. My father brought out steaming cups of hot chocolate that warmed my fingers and nose as we watched. They were assassinated two days later. Today, the sun is rising without any fanfare. Gunmetal gray giving way to steel and ice. All the slush and grit colors of early spring in Kansas City. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad." I crouch before a pair of padlocks snapped around the links of the fence guarding the Missouri Riverfront viewing deck. As far as I know, the river didn't mean anything to either of them. Which is part of the point. No one would ever think to look for me here. "Nothing much to report," I say, hooking one finger into the lock I think of as my dad's. I always imagine him squinting at me for some reason. Like I've said or done something that has brought him to the edge of a laugh without toppling over into it. It's not an expression I thought I associated with him, but sometimes grief doesn't make sense, and the father that lives in my brain will apparently squint at me forever. Mom's lock has a little gouge running through the metal of the front plate. Just like the tiny scar that speared her upper lip. "Today's the last day of school before spring break. The big Underhill Gala happens next week. Don't worry. I'm not going, obviously. Logan would crack a joke before he let that happen." I try to imagine my rock--hearted, stern--faced protector loosening up enough to try humor on for size. It makes me laugh. Which I also can't imagine Logan doing. "Embry invited us all on a spring break cruise because he doesn't want to go to the gala. Four days on a private yacht floating around the Caribbean. But Logan was even less enthused by the idea of sending me on a trip funded by Boss Acosta, even if she wouldn't be there, than by the idea of sending me to the gala." Logan has a hard enough time letting me be friends with the son of one of the most powerful people in the country. I think the only reason he lets it stand is that there's no love lost between Embry and his mom. I've never even met her. I shiver against the creeping cold of morning, the sweat I worked up on the way here forming icy crystals against my skin. Below me, the river is sluggish and muddy, the banks scabbed over with ice that's gone brown in the early spring thaw. "I'll keep you posted," I say, pressing a kiss to my index and middle fingers and planting it against the cold metal of the padlocks. "Love you." Turning away from the river, I slip my fingers back into sweat--soaked gloves and begin the six--mile jog home. No music, because music blocks the senses, and no meandering thoughts, because that's how people like me get dead. I jog the way Logan taught me: as though danger lurks around every corner. Kansas City rises before me, redbrick and sandstone buildings surging out of the bluffs and lining the rolling hills that slowly climb higher and higher. Beneath them is a labyrinthine network of tunnels and grand meeting rooms that house Underhill, Inc. Ruled by none other than Boss Acosta, Underhill is responsible for establishing and maintaining order and peace between talented folk and everyone else. We call anyone without a talent topsiders for no other reason than Underhill is based underground and it sounds better than "talentless." Having this kind of infrastructure is the reason Kansas City became the primary hub for talented folk. It's the safest city in the nation for people like me. Which is saying something. I vary my path according to Logan's instruction, making sure my steps are as difficult to track as possible as I turn toward home. Today, I cut straight through downtown, past Union Station and the vaulting tower of the World War I memorial. Then south, wending my way back around Loose Park toward the Brookside shops. A petite woman emerges from a delivery van, carrying several heavy boxes. Thinking no one is watching, she hands them down to her dolly as though they weigh nothing, her strongarm talent evident by the unstrained smile on her face. I feel a swift and fleeting pang of jealousy for the easy way her talent blends into her life. She doesn't have to worry or pretend. Even if a topsider witnessed her incredible strength, they'd hardly bat an eye. She doesn't have to vary her path home or run without music, and she definitely didn't have to create a shrine for her dead parents at the riverfront because visiting their actual graves might get her kidnapped or murdered. She gets to live her life out of the spotlight. Let her talent make things a little bit easier without making her a target. It doesn't seem fair. But that's the way it is. I shake off my jealousy and continue home. Up the final hill to the last house on the row, with its cracked concrete drive and garden beds that only look intentional in the winter, when everything is dead. Logan says he prefers it this way, that one way to ensure you don't attract too much attention is to be neither the nicest nor the trashiest house on the block, but I suspect he really hates yard work. Which does make sense. He didn't become the nation's most feared assassin by pulling weeds. And I would much rather he taught me how to snap someone's neck than mulch a garden. I run past the house once, searching for any of the signals Logan sometimes plants when I'm out. Some small thing out of place that would suggest I should enter the house on my guard and prepared to fight. I'm a little disappointed when I come up empty, but I'm already treacherously close to running late, so it's probably for the best. "Greetings, this house is equipped with a security system," an automated voice warns as I approach the back door. "Your presence is being recorded." I recite the words with it, nudging open the storm door and propping it with my butt as I shove my key into the lock. Plenty of people give their sec systems names or refer to them as Little Syster, but Logan has always warned against forging unnecessary emotional connections. Especially with things that cannot form emotional connections with us. He barely tolerates the fact that I have more than one friend, but I told him that going through school without forging a single unnecessary connection was going to make me stick out more than being a lackluster bullseye. "Welcome home. You have thirty seconds to enter your personal security code before authorities are notified." "Twenty--nine, twenty--eight," I count, locking the door behind me before entering my code. "Hello, Tru," the system says. "Confirming that you are home alone. School starts in thirty--two minutes. You need to leave in seventeen minutes to be on time for first bell." "Thanks," I say. It responds with a swift "You're welcome." Just one of the many ways sec systems are designed to put you at ease. When I first met Logan, he didn't use a sec system at all. He thought they dulled the senses and left him open to attack, but something about adopting a ten--year--old girl who'd just witnessed her parents' murder changed his mind. I toe off my shoes and hurry upstairs for a quick shower and change of clothes, barely remembering to grab my phone. It pings with reminders, letting me know that I'm almost late and also that I have a test in AP Government because Mx. Woodley has a reputation to uphold and never misses an opportunity to throw a test at us when we are least likely to care about it. Like the Friday before spring break. I fly out of the house and into my trusty Chevrolet Caprice Classic, which is really a boat on wheels, and make it to school with three minutes to spare. A small miracle, to be honest. Sage Morgan is at her usual post by the front door, blond curls tumbling down to the middle of her back and brown eyes twinkling. She grins at the sight of me, pushing away from the wall and hopping to a stop in front of me. "Good morning. I have two questions for you." She holds up two fingers wrapped in glossy scars from a kitchen accident when she was in eighth grade. "One: Which court case established the power of judicial review?" We spent a lot of time on this in class. The power of the Supreme Court to decide what the law is and isn't was a disaster from the start, and it's only getting worse. "Marbury versus Madison," I say. "Very good," Sage says with an encouraging nod. "Question two: Do you have plans tomorrow night?" There are two things to know about Sage. The first is that she is kind. Not just nice, but kind. The second thing to know about Sage Morgan is that she has never met a day she couldn't plan, or a situation she couldn't untangle with a few well--placed words and a smile. Right now, that smile says she already knows the answer. "I . . . do now?" I ask as students stream around us. About a third of them are conspicuously dressed in Underhill colors, or the colors they hope to wear if they become Underhill Associates. Gold for Executives, blue for Operations, and the deepest black for Enforcers. This time of year, there's more excitement than usual because the Underhill Gala is next week. The gala is the first opportunity for under--eighteens to impress Underhill and become an Apprentice. It's basically prom with superpowers. From the outside, St. Isidor's High might look like a normal Catholic school, but the parents who send their children here aren't paying for religion so much as discretion. Everyone who walks through these halls is a talent of some sort. Strongarms, bullseyes, wingtips, bombshells, and me. "Correct!" Sage claps her hands and then steers me into Mx. Woodley's classroom, where everyone is furiously cramming. Of all the talents that are surely represented in this room, there's not one that increases intelligence. Strongarms have enhanced strength, bullseyes have incredible aim, wingtips unparalleled speed and grace, and bombshells basically explode, but when it comes to history tests, we're equally screwed. "What are my plans for tomorrow night?" I ask as I slide into the desk next to Sage's. "Well, first of all, you should know that I already asked Embry and Amie, and they both turned me down, so you kind of have to come." I raise a suspicious eyebrow. "You could have said no if you'd been here on time, but . . ." She shrugs as if to say that ship has sailed. "I know you have that murderous wake--up call on weekends, but the job has a hard stop at ten p.m. You'll be home by ten thirty at the latest. In bed by eleven. That gives you at least four solid hours of sleep." "Sage," I say, understanding dawning. "Yes?" She bats her eyes sweetly. "Babysitting?" "Yup," she chirps. "Easy--peasy." "A regular job?" I ask, but I can already tell by her expression that it's not. Sage loves finding jobs through BountyApp. The one--stop shop for Underhill Associates looking for sanctioned bounties . . . or in need of a child-care while they chase those bounties. Which may or may not include killing people. Because even assassins have families. Sage purses her lips and shakes her head. "But the kid seems super great." She tries to shift her attention to Mx. Woodley, who's standing at the head of the class with arms crossed, ready to start the exam the second the bell rings. "Uh--huh. How old are they?" "Hmm?" Sage's eyes cut back to me briefly. "Oh, like thirteen, I think?" "Years?" I press. The bell rings as Sage answers, "Months. Please, please, please come with me!" There is a third thing to know about Sage: she's terrible with babies. She wants to be good with babies, but experience has taught me that wanting something doesn't always make it real. "Okay," I agree, and Sage beams. Sage may have a baby-sitting mission tomorrow night, but as much as I adore my friend, I know that I'll be on a rescue mission. Excerpted from The Assassin's Guide to Babysitting by Natalie C. Parker All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
