Ever (The Ever Series Book 4) Read online

  I park at the end of her street and watch as she walks up the stairs of the house her mother has rented. She waves to her elderly neighbor before stepping inside. Driving a block from her house, I allow my power to cease flowing through the car’s engine as I continue following her thoughts. She is cataloging the day’s events, focusing on how socially awkward she feels, even more so when dealing with the boys at her new school.

  When she reaches the kitchen, she sees a note stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet advertising the name of the hospital where her mother works. She reads the note before pulling open the refrigerator door with such force that the contents knock together. She has been avoiding her father—avoiding thinking about him, calling him, or feeling anything toward the man. She does not want to call him and expose her antipathy, because the effort is not worth the emotional toll.

  More and more, I am beginning to think that this girl and I are two of a kind, yet I feel I am insulting her by thinking such a thing. She is not a monster. She has not spent millennia hunting innocent people whose minds and bodies could be used to commit atrocities for an eternity.

  I watch through her eyes as she takes food from the refrigerator and gathers her belongings on the way to her room before setting down each item and picking up her mobile phone to call her mother. When Caroline Sullivan asks Wren if she has returned her father’s call, Wren deflects the question and takes a bite of her apple. Setting the fruit on the desk, she picks up the note from her mother and begins to tear it into tiny pieces. Finally Caroline Sullivan gives up and asks how her school day was.

  “Weird,” Wren responds, envisioning her interactions with Tarabocchia and Jeffrey Summers.

  When a colleague walks into Caroline Sullivan’s office and asks about a newly admitted patient who requires the services of a social worker, Wren hurries to ask her mother about attending the film with her friends the following evening. They quickly finish their conversation, and Wren sets her phone on the bed. Walking downstairs, she turns on the aging music player in the living room. The song that begins playing was recorded nearly four decades before her birth, but she smiles fondly, even as the song reminds her of crying in her bedroom before her parents separated.

  In the kitchen, she gathers ingredients for a dinner she will eat alone. As she chops vegetables and opens cans, she begins reviewing the male specimens she has come into contact with. She is exceptionally accurate as she contemplates Joshua Tarabocchia, who is much more interested in the highly fictionalized version of her that he has created in his mind than he is in Wren as an actual human being.

  When an image of Jeffrey Summers fills her mind, I am again pleased that she sees his actions for what they are—a feeble-minded attempt at retaliation against his fickle girlfriend. She smiles and looks down, envisioning herself with braces and adolescent spots marring her skin.

  … should write a thank-you note to Dr. Mallory, Wren thinks, picturing her former dermatologist.

  Then she frowns again as she thinks of me.

  … can’t get him out of my head, but what does it matter? Beautiful or not, he ignores me as aggressively as he avoids every other living, breathing entity, and every girl in school has had some kind of fantasy about him.

  When she envisions me as Prince Charming from Snowdrop—more commonly known as Snow White—by the Grimm Brothers, I shift into her bedroom and listen as she laughs quietly at the thought.

  She returns her attention to the meal she is preparing, layering raw pasta noodles, vegetables, cheese, and sauce. After placing the concoction into the oven, she begins walking toward her room and I shift to the car as she contacts Ashley Stewart in an attempt to avoid Joshua Tarabocchia tomorrow evening. When she begins working on her school work, I wonder what she would think if she knew an immortal being was watching and listening to her every action and thought.

  Prince Charming, indeed. The wolf of Little Red Cap—again more commonly known as the popular Little Red Riding Hood fairy tale—would better represent me. If Wren Sullivan knew my true nature, she would be terrified, without doubt.

  When she begins searching for used vehicles on the Internet, I find myself thrust into another time loop—an image her mere centimeters from the grille of an enormous pickup truck, her features frozen in fear. A moment later, I see her lying lifeless, her limbs askew as rain falls upon her still form.

  The same sense of profound loss floods through me as the day I nearly killed her.

  There is no denying it—others are coming for her now. They will find her. Soon. Evil that is not of this world will gravitate toward her until it has consumed her. Then, on the brink of death, deep within the recesses of her mind, she will be given a choice. Accept infinite possession, or cease to exist. This is why I came here to destroy her mind—so they could not use it to gain purchase in this world.

  Her destiny as the last human vessel is much darker than others before her. As the last, she has the power to hold open the portal to the other side, giving Victor free access to this world.

  Wren begins walking downstairs to tend to dinner and is unnerved by the quiet of the house. She stops and listens to the ticking of the clock in the living room, shivering as she continues toward the kitchen, where she takes the baking dish from the oven.

  I watch warily through her eyes as she takes out a large knife and slices the contents of the dish into squares, depositing a single square onto a small plate and pouring a glass of water. She hesitantly takes a bite before taking her meal to her room and turning on music. She opens her e-mail messages as she eats, frowning as she sees the messages from her father.

  I hear her teeth grind together when she opens the second missive. I smile thinly at her rage. Who is Thomas Sullivan to accuse anyone of being unfair? Her body temperature rises as she begins typing out an angry response.

  Dear Thomas,

  I’m not being fair? Really? You’re the one who started boinking your PA

  She stops suddenly and takes a deep, shuddering breath before deleting what she typed. She begins again.

  Dad,

  Sorry. Busy with school stuff. What did you want to ask me? The picture you sent of Benjamin is very cute. Say hi to Jessica.

  Wren

  When she stands and walks over to the window, I shift to an unlit corner on the street and watch her face as she looks to the night sky. Her eyes dart toward the light cast by the single streetlamp as though she is looking for something. Then, with another heavy breath, she turns away from the window and walks out of her bedroom.

  I follow her movements as she readies herself for the coming hours during which her mind will be a mystery to me. When she returns to her bedroom dressed in flannel pajamas, she looks around with a distracted expression and then climbs into her narrow twin bed, pulling the covers up over herself. The moment she closes her eyes, I see a crystal clear image of myself in her mind. She sighs.

  So I guess the movies got it right, she thinks. The guy you can’t stop thinking about is inevitably the one who couldn’t care less that you exist.

  Wren Sullivan will never know how wrong she is.

  4: Watching

  One of the many human pastimes that has mystified me during my time observing the evolution of creatures in this dimension is that of the cinema. Groups of humans sitting in a large, dark room laughing, crying, or screaming in terror. In their quest for connection, modern humans’ inclination to sit for hours of their brief lives—unspeaking, unable to see anything but images upon a screen—appeared illogical, silly even.

  Now I understand.

  Sitting at the back of a crowded theatre, I listen with growing agitation to the internal ramblings of Joshua Tarabocchia, who has been biding his time, waiting for some form of unspoken encouragement from Wren, who is seated uncomfortably between him and Taylor Nguyen.

  Across the theatre from their group, I see Jeffrey Summers and his coterie. Even if I were incapable of hearing his every thought, he and his friends would be difficult to
miss, being the brashest and most disruptive group occupying the darkened space. Currently, the miscreant’s hand is slithering up his erstwhile girlfriend’s thigh. When she yawns and crosses her legs, he takes out his phone and begins texting a friend sitting two seats over. In the back of his mind, he is planning to find Wren after the film.

  Fresh meat, he thinks salaciously.

  My fingers curl around the metal bars that affix the armrests to my seat. I twist the material like putty, imagining how I could snap his neck in an instant. Not a soul in this theatre would notice until the lights went up. Again, the temptation makes my muscles twitch with anticipation.

  During my existence I have killed many who deserved a better fate, their lives forfeit only because their minds made them a danger to us and to this world. Wren Sullivan, though, poses the greatest threat of all, and if the traitor offers her a deal and she accepts, she would not only be the key to Victor breaking down the barrier between dimensions, also would become a formidable enemy, granted her mind and body became property of Victor’s mad princess.

  Victor’s power would flow unabated, and his influence would be limitless with Wren at his behest. We would be lost.

  My mind flashes to Persephone. She thought us gods when she first looked upon us, and at the time, I could not comprehend what Alistair saw in her. Yes, she was certainly exemplary for a human, but none of us could understand what bonded him to her so implicitly.

  Love, he had said.

  When I had asked him how he knew—knowing that so many times humans will mistake other more fleeting emotions or urges for love—his answer had been that the thought of losing her was more than he could bear.

  Wren’s nose crinkles at the smell of stale popcorn and noxious candy, and she winces as a creature onscreen leaps forward. As the theatregoers gasp and scream, I watch as Tarabocchia lifts his arm and gingerly places it mere inches from her shoulders. When she closes her eyes and imagines taking off his arm with a broad sword, I stifle a surprised laugh.

  She continues to watch apprehensively as the bloodshed increases and the body count continues to rise. Then, a moment comes in the film in which the hero figure looks up as a “divine” light is cast down upon him. Instantly her mind flits to the moment she saw me outside.

  Nope. Ever Casey is way hotter. … And I’ve completely lost my mind.

  When everyone begins screaming again, she quickly rises from her seat and hurries to the lobby to Tarabocchia’s disappointment. Shifting to the parking lot, I watch as she walks the length of the mostly empty lobby before taking a seat on the bench and staring into the parking lot. For an instant, her vision focuses on me, and she sits up, her eyes narrowing and her skin prickling with awareness. I shift to the very back of the lot, cursing myself for my error.

  Rising, she walks to the glass doors and stares out, sighing again as she sees a couple rushing toward the box office window. Finally she turns and begins walking deeper into the cinema complex. I walk the rows of cars, stopping when I reach the truck with the vanity license plate with the word STUDLY. As Jeffrey Summers thinks of the offensive acts he intends to commit against Wren, I draw my blade from beneath my coat and puncture his rear tires before returning to lean against the Maserati.

  Several of the theatre’s films end simultaneously, and soon the lobby is engulfed in a teeming mass of people as Wren emerges from the restrooms and begins looking for her friends. Her eyes catch on Jeffrey Summers and his group, and before she can look away, he sees her. Licking his lips, he gestures for her to join him.

  Please say he was waving at someone else, she thinks, quickly turning away and scanning the space for her friends.

  I look up as a chorus of thoughts sounds simultaneously.

  Oh my freaking god—Ever Casey!

  What’s he doing here?

  Both the loudest and quietest of Wren’s new friends, Lindsay Gallo and Taylor Nguyen, are gawking at me from the curb. Wren is walking toward them, but does not see them in time. Summers is going to intercept her before she reaches them. My jaw clenches as his hand comes down possessively on Wren’s shoulder.

  “Told you I’d see you here,” Summers leers imperiously.

  Reluctantly, Wren turns, and I see the barely contained disdain in her features through his eyes. Then her lips twitch in a crooked smile as she dubs him Jeff the Jerk in her mind.

  “Hi,” she says noncommittally.

  This degenerate actually believes she came here alone to seek him out. He teases her, attempting to cajole her into joining him before looking over his shoulder to make certain that his fickle girlfriend is watching. Wren follows his gaze across the lobby and sees Emily Michaels staring back at her.

  “So sad. Does Jeff really think I’m going to be jealous of that?” Emily Michaels says to the girl next to her.

  The Michaels girl’s pejorative use of the word that lays bare her thinly concealed insecurity. It is another curiosity to me how some adolescents’ self-doubt lends itself to hostility while others’ self-doubt causes timidity.

  “Come on,” Summers demands, throwing his arm around Wren’s shoulder and urging her across the crowded room.

  Her steps are sluggish, and she is virtually digging her heels into the ground, certain she does not want to come face-to-face with barefaced derision. Wren’s expression melts into relief when she sees Ashley Stewart. Waving frenetically, Wren catches her friend’s attention, and I watch the girl rush toward Wren before noticing Jeffrey Summers. Wren ducks out of her captor’s grip.

  “Stupid bitch,” Summers mutters as she retreats.

  Cretin, she thinks as she hurries toward her friend. Ashley Stewart and Emily Michaels were friends as children. Now the animosity between them is palpable. As Wren and her young friend begin talking, I watch as the other two girls rush toward them.

  “Oh … my … God!” Lindsay Gallo gasps dramatically. “You guys missed it!”

  “Missed what?” Ashley Stewart says in exasperation, motioning for one of the other two to speak.

  Taylor Nguyen points toward the glass doors, her expression still astonished.

  “Ever Casey.”

  As they continue talking, I watch Wren’s expression through their eyes. She looks into Taylor Nguyen’s eyes, her pulse racing as she extracts an indistinct image of me. Her excitement and anticipation increase as the group walks toward the exit. Wren stops and eagerly looks around as they join the boys at the curb. I wish for her to look upon me, despite knowing my desire is dangerous to us both. Shifting to the car, I touch the dash and feel the engine come to life as I watch her peer around the parking lot in disappointment. When she turns to her friend Ashley and quietly asks for a ride home, I feel a mixture of relief and disappointment. If Joshua Tarabocchia had offered her a ride home, I might have been inclined to take her home myself.

  I curse savagely at the thought. What would that accomplish?

  The rain eases as Wren follows her friend to her car. Again, I am plagued by exhilaration and regret as she conjures the image of my likeness from her friend Taylor’s mind. She wants to connect it to the brief moment she saw me, but she cannot. She draws in a breath, debating. Then she sighs and closes her eyes.

  “Has anyone heard anything about why Ever Casey is so … you know?”

  “Out there?” Ashley Stewart finishes helpfully.

  Wren searches for a logical explanation for my appearance and behavior that would allow her to categorize me and thus alleviate her enduring curiosity.

  “I mean, is he on medication or something?” she asks guiltily. “Jeff Summers said he was in … a mental hospital.”

  Ashley Stewart, to her credit, shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

  “Don’t listen to him. Jeff’s had a thing against him for months, even before Emily tried hooking up with Ever.”

  Wren allows a surprised gasp of laughter to escape her lips.

  “Seriously?”

  Ashley Stewart nods and relays my interaction with Emily
Michaels.

  “People just assumed he wasn’t all there. Know what I mean? Wicked hot, but nobody home upstairs.”

  She taps her forehead to indicate my perceived mental vacancy.

  “But you said he got perfect grades, right?” Wren asks.

  Her friend frowns briefly at the incongruity before shrugging as they step into the car.

  “Yeah. … Oh, who knows? But when he caught you in the cafeteria, I just about died. It was the first time I saw him do anything normal. Well, not normal-normal, but you know what I mean. I still can’t believe you talked to him!”

  “Yeah. Once. … Hey, what’s up with you and Marcus?”

  Ashley Stewart beams and launches into a simultaneously insecure and enthusiastic recounting of their intermittent handholding throughout the film. I listen to their conversation as they approach Wren’s house. Stepping from the car, I walk over to the truck with two flat tires.

  “Are you kidding me?” Jeffrey Summers hisses into his mobile phone before launching into an expletive-laced rant. “Two hours for a tow truck?”

  I smile and begin to walk back to my car. I should not feel this pleased with myself, but I do. Hearing Wren walk through her front door, I shift back to the car and drive faster than advisable, slowing only when I am two blocks from her house.

  She walks upstairs to her room and calls her mother at work before readying herself for sleep. I am desperate to watch her sleep. I crave the peace. Instead, I wait. Alone. Shortly before dawn, I shift back to the house on the coast to change clothing before returning.

  When Wren awakens in the morning, I follow her routine with increasing anticipation as she steps into the kitchen and searches for her morning’s sustenance without success. With a hastily scrawled shopping list, she knocks lightly on her mother’s door, smiling when her mother mumbles groggily in response.