Ever (The Ever Series Book 4) Page 4

  As Wren searches Ashley Stewart’s thoughts, she cringes inwardly as she watches a blurred image of herself being taken away by stretcher. Other students in the class have begun to whisper and gossip, as humans are wont to do. Seeing this, Wren worries over being a permanent source of morbid fascination.

  In each class, she remains quiet, hoping she will pass by unnoticed. When the rain picks up, I shift to a coffee shop nearby and order a large coffee and leave it at a table before walking to the restroom. Locking the door behind me, I shift to the house and retrieve a laptop computer before returning to the restroom and walking back into the coffee shop. By human standards, I now have the perfect justification for sitting by myself for hours on end. Standing unmoving in the rain or sitting in a coffee shop without a device of some kind? Both draw unwanted attention.

  My attention shifts to a man standing at an intersection about two blocks away, begging for loose change. Rising, I walk to the counter and select a sandwich and a cup of fruit. Picking up the coffee, I walk outside and around the corner before shifting to where the man is standing while the light is green and no one is likely to notice.

  He blinks as I walk around to face him, and when I hand him the food, he simply stares at me. Walking a half a block before shifting back to the coffee shop, I realize that this man or any other human on this planet at any moment could be possessed by something from my dimension. In fact, any one of these humans could be temporarily taken, which makes me wary of any distance between Wren Sullivan and myself.

  Or perhaps I am merely trying to lend legitimacy to my growing desire to be near this girl.

  By the lunch hour, the inevitable inaccuracies of human storytelling have elevated other students’ fascination with the circumstances surrounding Wren’s absence from earlier in the week, which I imagine they would find even more titillating were they to know the actual cause of her episode, as she is sardonically referring to it in her mind.

  “So, what’d you do to Ever?”

  Wren flinches at the same time I do. The boy from Gideon’s first period. Matthew Turner. His question—on the surface—was posed jokingly, but I recognize the accusing tone in his voice. Searching his thoughts, I find an image of myself, my head bent over Wren Sullivan as she lay lifeless in my arms. This boy is much more astute than I had given him credit for. He even recognized the proprietary expression in my eyes as I stared down at her.

  His desire for me—or at least what he perceives to be me—runs much deeper than that which I have encountered from most of the female population at this school. He has assumed that our outsider status stems from the same source. What he fails to account for is that mine is chosen seclusion. I feel something akin to sympathy for him, particularly now that we find ourselves in the same predicament of wanting what we cannot have.

  Any mortal—including Wren Sullivan—would almost certainly see me as a monster if they knew what I was and what I have done during the course of my existence.

  Matthew Turner is fortunate. If he remains lonely, it will likely only be for a short duration—which will only feel like an eternity in his adolescent mind. For me, eternal loneliness is almost assured. My connection to the others is strong, but even I know it is a weak substitute for a partner. I do not expect to find what Alistair has found in Persephone or what Audra and Chasen have found in one another.

  Somehow, now, after so many millennia, I can appreciate humans’ endless ballads lamenting the cruelness of unrequited affection. There is a definitive poignancy to this theme of human existence, which is odd, seeing as humans, for the most part, see the differences between themselves, rather than what binds them.

  “That was a student?” Wren asks the group upon searching Matthew Turner’s thoughts for the person he was referring to.

  Clearly my assumption that my physical appearance, as far as age, would go unnoticed was off the mark. Joshua Tarabocchia is in the midst of a resentful fit when Wren turns to him. I am moderately mollified when she looks away quickly.

  “Ever?” she asks. “He’s the one who sits next to me in Mr. Gideon’s?”

  The sound of my name on her lips causes an alarming thrill to course through me. I watch as she searches Matthew Turner’s thoughts again.

  Looked down at her like he killed her.

  His thought only serves to make her more curious, but ultimately she remains frustrated by her inability to gain a clear picture of me in his mind or her own. She finally relents, but I find myself wishing that I could stand face-to-face with her and look into her eyes without putting her in mortal danger.

  Shifting into a corner of the cafeteria, I allow myself a single moment to watch her, knowing that it will not be enough.

  I spend the remainder of the week on the coast, hidden from Chasen and Audra. Wren Sullivan may be concealed, but Audra is not one to ignore my sudden reluctance to leave this place, particularly if I were to claim I found nothing here. Staying in the suburbs of Portland for one moment longer than necessary would immediately engender suspicion on the part of my compatriots.

  My mind is never far from Wren’s, despite the physical distance that separates us, and on Saturday evening, I feel her loneliness and detachment more acutely as she reflects on the life she left behind—including a father she believes was more than happy to excise her from his life in favor of a rapacious young wife and an infant boy.

  Caroline Sullivan is downstairs in the small kitchen making a mess of things. I watch as Wren stands, sniffing the air suspiciously as she contemplates her elderly neighbor. Her sadness again slices at me as she thinks of the man losing his wife. When she reaches the top of the stairs and stops, I feel a sudden ripple of unease as she stares into the mirror on the landing. Her mother calls to her, and she turns toward the stairs. I watch tensely as she reaches back toward the mirror. As her fingers slip into the iciness of the Beyond, a growl slips from my throat.

  Has he found her so soon? Iago, or Alexandre as he has chosen to call himself—has he come to trade her soul for some precious influence, insuring himself against the other side’s victory, which he sees as all but inevitable? I smile. It will be fitting when he must spend another eternity bowing to Victor.

  I wait, poised to shift, as Wren turns quickly to face the mirror. All she finds is her reflection in the glass, and I feel the tension leaving me. However, if she can draw the Beyond to herself so unintentionally, then it is only a matter of time before the traitor finds her.

  The sudden bleating of the smoke alarm sends her rushing down the stairs toward the home’s small kitchen—where she finds her mother in the midst of chaos. There is an innate loneliness in this girl, even in the company of her mother, whom I can see she cares for a great deal. But Wren is much more internal than her mother—always watchful, always thinking, evaluating, and contemplating. Even now, as she hurries to salvage their nighttime meal, Wren watches her mother with a mixture of awe and amusement.

  Seeing their interaction even from afar, I find myself missing the others while simultaneously dreading their inevitable reaction to Wren. Audra’s question to me would be simple: What is her value to us alive?

  For the first time my priorities are not perfectly aligned with the others’, and I feel the weight of my betrayal bearing down on me. Am I so different than the one we have come to call Iago, the one who has sought only his own advantage? Now that I have come so close to seeing an end to Victor’s potential dominion over another dimension, I find myself fearing what I have never feared before in my existence. Solitude. Pinching my brow between my thumb and index finger, I smile at the humanness of the gesture.

  Rising from the sofa, I take in my surroundings, trying to see them as this young human girl might. The scattered sketches of her likeness would most likely frighten her. The room itself—with glossy concrete floors, a fireplace, and large sofas—is perfectly appropriate for human habitation, while perhaps lacking in the personal accouterment they tend to collect. Shifting upstairs, I select some already
-framed past works, as well as a number of empty frames, before returning to the ground floor. There I set about framing a dozen of the better likenesses of Wren and hang them so that her face is staring back at me from nearly every angle.

  As soon as I have finished, I pull off my shirt and strip out of my remaining clothing as I walk toward the rear of the house. Pausing at the edge of the pool, I dive in. The water, while icy at first touch, warms immediately as my energy travels through the molecules. The feeling is seductive and soothing all at once. These are, perhaps, the most peaceful moments—beneath the water—when it is possible to imagine what quiet must be like, without billions of minds in the background. Like water, this girl transports me away from the unending hum of human thought.

  Cutting through the liquid toward the opposite end of the pool, I surface where the water is open to the stars above, aware that I am awaiting the peacefulness of her slumber. Instead, her rest is agitated, plagued by tiny whimpers and shudders. Her restlessness makes me wonder: somewhere, deep in her subconscious, does she know that something has come for her?

  I must admit to feeling a strange new sense of victory in being the first to find her, this girl who could spell salvation or doom for the future of this dimension and its inhabitants. In this moment, I swear to myself that I shall carry the burden of what has been cast upon her. She never need know of what hunts her.

  However, it is my craving to be close to her that is perhaps the most dangerous of all. Even now, sitting in her small bedroom, watching her gentle breaths, I know that I am a monster for wishing to cross these last few steps to touch her cheek. That is not all I want. I wish for Wren Sullivan to look upon me without fear, which would be categorically impossible if she were to know my true nature.

  The following week is a test of my patience, and truly something I never encountered before this girl. Joshua Tarabocchia, the boy I had found only mildly obnoxious the preceding week, has arrived at school early—for Wren. My aggravation rises exponentially at the virtual queue forming to vie for her attention, a strange procession of males jockeying for position, from the harmless to the exceedingly loathsome. For these boys, their interest in Wren is partly driven by the novelty she poses. That their limited human vision could see a tenth of her true beauty would be a stretch of the imagination. For the most part, I do not find these human boys remotely worrisome, with the exception of Jeffrey Summers, whose vulgarity and overconfidence grate upon me.

  Tarabocchia’s sneakers squeak on the linoleum flooring, announcing his presence and cutting short Wren’s contemplation of the Portland, Oregon’s persistently rainy climate. Her heartbeat races like that of a hummingbird’s as she spins around, convinced someone has been watching her.

  I question whether I should feel some degree of guilt for my unabated act of voyeurism. Rarely have I scrutinized a single human at such length, and when I have, it has, almost without fail, resulted in his or her early demise.

  Her unease slackens visibly as she recognizes the boy racing toward her, and yet I feel another swell of inappropriate triumph when I detect no corresponding infatuation on her part. Their conversation remains stilted as she hurries toward Gideon’s classroom, and while friendly, she remains intent upon deflecting his attentions. Again, she relaxes visibly when he finally abandons his failed attempt to ask her on a date. As she slips into Gideon’s room, I listen as the boy curses his reticence, causing me to smile.

  The board meeting for one of my corporate holdings in Canada has just begun, with some of the board’s members eager for my ouster. Arriving, I wait quietly in a corner as one of my more outspoken detractors reaches the height of his acerbic attack, in small part due to the fact that I appear younger than his grandson, who happens to be a profligate gambler currently in the arms of a prostitute in Atlantic City.

  The true reason for the man’s duplicity is simple. He has a vested interest in seeing alternative energy enterprises fail, given that the vast majority of his wealth is inextricably linked to heavy crude.

  “Then you must be prepared to put the matter to a vote,” I say.

  I enjoy the look of astonishment on his features as I step away from the corner.

  “This … this is highly unorthodox,” the man sputters.

  “The vote, or me?” I ask evenly.

  I can spare little tolerance for these humans whose actions hasten the downfall of this world. Could I—and the others—live without air, water, and other elements vital to human survival? Yes, certainly we could survive, but we would, yet again, be doomed to an existence in a dead realm, all due to the persistent greed of a few, coupled with mindless and unsustainable proliferation of the human population that threatens the species’ very existence.

  Perhaps, like Audra, I should await their self-destruction with patient acceptance, but it is not in me to do so. This realm’s devastation would only serve to remind me of Victor’s depravity in our world.

  My mind wanders as Wren bends over a stack of artwork, easily identifying my pieces among the others. I smile when she bolts upright at the sound of Gideon’s off-key singing.

  “Do you find this entertaining, Mr. Casey?” the jowly old man asks self-importantly.

  “Quite the opposite. Shall we vote?”

  When the vote fails, I walk from the room without a backward glance, my attention riveted by the sound of my name on Wren’s lips.

  “How long has Ever been in your class?”

  Her curiosity should worry me at the very least, but instead I find myself oddly cheered by her fascination with a person she does not properly remember. A few minutes later, when she resists the urge to ask Ashley Stewart about my absence, I know that any memory of our brief contact is slowly fading away. She had only a trace of recollection to begin with—and yet she persists, kindling within me a dangerous spark of hopefulness.

  Despite a growing hunger to stand before her and see myself in her eyes, I mostly resist the temptation, although not entirely, given I spend my nights watching her sleep. Night, in some ways, is the most dangerous time for me to leave her. With her subconscious free to roam, I have no link to her thoughts. All I can do is watch her, waiting for the moment when someone inevitably finds her, whether it be Iago, my opponent; Audra or Chasen, my allies; or one of Victor’s minions.

  I try to convince myself that my only reason for watching over her is to prevent her possession by a being from our dimension. The other possibility—that Iago could charm her into willingly giving up her body—is equally repugnant. She would live forever, yet be under the control of whatever has dominion over her body and mind.

  I watch as Wren becomes accustomed to her new town and school. She remains, however, marginally aware of that which separates her from other humans. She is cautious, knowing she can never show her true self to any of these creatures—or risk ostracism at best, imprisonment at worst.

  Perhaps it is her acceptance of her status as an outsider—at an age when social approval is paramount to most adolescents—that continues to draw me in. Rather than seeking out attention from her male or female peers, she watches, waiting, as though she is searching for someone who will understand. Each time she searches the thoughts of her peers or instructors for some scant detail about me, I feel a jolt. By now, she understands that the response to my presence is sharply divided, and the fact that no one exhibits any extraordinary curiosity about my continuing absence both perplexes and startles her.

  The longer I watch her, the more I feel it. The Gathering—energy and creatures from the other side eager to use her as their corridor to this realm. Iago will not be far behind. Under different circumstances, a decade might pass without contact from Audra and Chasen, but knowing how close we are to the end, they will likely be curious, if not suspicious, of my unwillingness to leave this particular place.

  On her fourth morning at Springview High School, Wren finally begins to question Ashley Stewart regarding my whereabouts and the collective lack of concern surrounding my disappe
arance. As she continues to press her young friend for information, I make my decision. When I step through the classroom door and begin walking toward my seat, Ashley Stewart gapes.

  “Uh … oh,” she whispers before returning her attention to Wren, who remains amusingly oblivious.

  Wren, please shut up. Like right now.

  Wren frowns at her friend’s panicked thought.

  “What’s wrong?”

  As realization dawns, she quickly looks toward the door, her heart beating frantically in her chest. I find it endlessly fascinating to watch her mannerisms from such a short distance while she is awake. The other students in the classroom have become unusually quiet, like a herd of deer suddenly becoming aware of a predator in their midst.

  Finally Wren Sullivan turns slowly toward me, her expression both terrified and embarrassed, and I focus all my energy on protecting her from what lies behind my eyes.

  3: Living Statue

  I sit expressionlessly as she crosses the room, intrigued by her perception that the ground beneath her has tipped to an incline. The exertion she expends to reach her seat is tremendous, as is her terror that I have overheard her conversation with Ashley Stewart.

  When she takes a seat only inches from me, her small hands curl against the material of her jeans and her teeth bite into the flesh of her lower lip. She faces the front of the classroom in a concerted effort not to look in my direction. Each time her eyes drift toward me, she redirects her focus onto anything but me.

  My muscles coil in response to her growing fear. As much as she tries to deny it, deep within her psyche she knows I am the cause of her recent hospital visit. She knows I am a danger to her.

  When Gideon returns, my tension eases, and she finally exhales. He begins his lecture, and she slowly continues to relax, convincing herself that her fear of me is unsubstantiated. The grip on her pen loosens, and she takes a shuddering breath—prompting me to take a breath as well.