Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  “You have the wildest dreams,” she said with a small smile. She nodded and patted my arm.

  “But—” I pulled my arm from her, knowing what she was doing.

  “It was a dream, Alexis. We don’t have time to discuss it,” she said, an edge to her voice now.

  Right. A dream. That makes more sense. Something deep inside, past the throbbing in my head, denied that theory, but there was really no other explanation. Witches and werewolves . . . people appearing and disappearing . . . . How can that be real? Logic told me it couldn’t but . . . my intuition knew something happened.

  I broke my eyes from hers to hide my denial, not in the mood to challenge her now. My head hurt too much to argue, feeling like someone jabbed around in my brain while I slept. Also, I’d seen the stony look on Mom’s face before: Drop it, the look said.

  I glanced around the living room and noticed the emptiness for the first time—no furniture, no boxes stacked against the walls, nothing. “Where is everything?”

  “Packed in the moving truck.” She sounded nonchalant, as if it made perfect sense.

  “What?”

  It didn’t make sense at all. That wasn’t the plan. Mom was supposed to end it with her boyfriend last night and we would pack the truck today and leave for Florida tomorrow. Why the sudden rush? She didn’t believe my story, so that couldn’t be it. It had to be the boyfriend. It was almost always the boyfriends.

  “We need to get out of here,” she said. “Now.”

  I knew the tone and moved as quickly as my aching head allowed. Our moves always felt like forced escapes. Sometimes it was because of an accident, but most often because of the boyfriends. Though this move had actually been planned, it now had the familiar feeling we were once again making an escape. At least this time I knew where we were going and why.

  I still felt sluggish as we traveled south on I-95. Images of the werewolf and the witch flashed through my mind. I fell asleep and dreamt about them, but they were good in this dream. Not monsters. And they fell in love. I spent a good portion of the trip outlining a book about their supernatural romance, my first full-length novel that I felt compelled to write immediately.

  As the drugged feeling lifted and I could think clearly, I analyzed those strange events. People tried to hurt me and possibly wanted to kill me. I thought. Maybe the werewolf and the witch and the other bizarre parts weren’t real. Maybe I hit my head harder than I realized and imagined those parts. Or maybe the real events mashed up with an actual dream and I had everything confused. But I was certain I was attacked. Fairly certain, anyway. And the way the white-blonde said I was “hers” told me it wasn’t the last time I’d see her. If she was even real.

  My memory felt like a ripped-up photo taped back together but missing vital pieces. Some details, like the wolf’s terrifying eyes, were so clear, while others, like my protectors’ faces, were blank. This made me question the reality of it all, but I couldn’t dismiss the fear. It was too deeply embedded into my memory.

  If someone had attacked me, though, Mom would know. She wouldn’t have dismissed it so easily. She was too protective of me. Even going off to college on my own was never an option. She gave up her job in corporate sales because, she said, she was ready for a change. She’d been in sales for as long as I could remember and was quite successful at it. One of her quirks was her power of persuasion—she could sell a truckload of beef to a vegan. But she had always wanted to own a bookstore and there happened to be one for sale just ten miles from the college I’d chosen. I was actually glad she was coming with me. She was my best friend, after all. My only friend for years. I had to wonder now, though, if she was really coming to protect me.

  Hundreds of miles passed under the truck’s wheels before I built the courage to ask and braced myself for her reaction.

  “Mom . . . are there people who want to hurt us? I mean, because of who we are?”

  She gave me a sideways glance. “Alexis, I would not let anything happen to you.”

  “I know, but if there are people out there . . . shouldn’t I know? Don’t you think it’s time I knew things about us?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The corner of her lips turned down in a frown. “I can’t tell you, honey. I just can’t. Not until the Ang’dora.”

  Right. The Ang’dora. The enigmatic “change” that was somehow connected with our quirks and everything that made us weird. I knew little about it. I knew little about us.

  “Are you asking because of your dream last night?” she asked. “Because you know it’s”

  I cut her off with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. Not real.”

  I wanted to believe her. That was the easy and safe explanation, but I just couldn’t.

  Mom held our secrets tightly, even from me, and I’d given up pleading for information years ago. She had told me many times she was bound to a promise made when I was an infant: I couldn’t know our secrets until I went through the Ang’dora and became more like her. When other families’ skeletons included domestic violence, sexual abuse or various addictions, ours seemed rather innocuous. After all, they were just weird quirks. Of course, it was annoying and frustrating that I couldn’t know why we had them, but when I let myself feel normal, I often forgot to be annoyed and frustrated. So most of the time, I pretended I didn’t care and allowed myself to live behind a façade of normalcy. Because all I really wanted was to have a normal life—a career as an author, true love, a family.

  But now I did care. Whether I was really attacked or not, it was time I knew who we were and why we had strange quirks. I hated snooping behind her back, but her refusal to explain left no other options.

  The move presented an easy opportunity for poking around. I volunteered to unpack the house while Mom prepared to open the bookstore. When she took me up on the offer to do her room, I didn’t expect to discover anything she didn’t want me to. And I didn’t. I found false identification for both of us—drivers’ licenses, birth certificates, passports and the like—giving us different last names, but they weren’t helpful. I grew up with several surnames, a different one each time we moved, though most often we went by “Ames,” as we did now. I was pretty sure that was the real one.

  I couldn’t even research Ames and our other surnames, though. Besides Sophia and Alexis, I had no first names to go on. We had extended family somewhere, but I’d never met them and Mom rarely discussed them. Without knowing their names, I could have searched genealogical records for years and never known if I was even in the right family. By the time the first day of classes came around, I knew nothing more, but I had a new plan and the college library would be perfect for its execution.

  That was the day the dreams stopped. Until then, I repeatedly dreamt of that strange night, particularly of one of my heroes. Not the one who carried me away, but the other one, the bigger one. I still never saw his face, just a shadowy figure, but it was him. Who are you? My dream-self asked every time. I never received an answer and he stopped visiting my dreams the first day of classes. Perhaps because a very real guy entered my dreams . . . and my life.

  Chapter 2

  I dropped two classes before school even started. It was actually Mom’s idea. I had a novel to write. When she read the outline I developed during our move, she said school could wait, the book couldn’t. An unexpected statement from her, but she had her own sixth sense. Mine told me if people were unusually good or bad, as if I picked up on a brainwave revealing their overall intentions. Mom could feel truths—and she was never wrong. She felt the truth my book would be published. She even said, mysteriously, it needed to be written.

  On the first day of college, with several hours between my morning classes and my one night class, I took the opportunity to do some research and planted my butt in a hard plastic chair at a library computer station. I wasn’t researching for my book, though, and not for class either. This time was for me. I finally concluded that all I really could research were our quirks—I knew no
thing else about us. I found a somewhat promising trail on the Internet and spent the entire afternoon researching telepaths.

  When I was done, I stared at my notes and felt like an idiot. Telepaths?! I seriously wasted hours on telepaths? I shook my head at the absurdity. Mom and I had peculiarities, but we certainly couldn’t read minds. Besides, telepaths, well, didn’t exist. Did they?

  I sighed and glanced at the clock, then bolted out of my seat, grabbing my bag and papers. Communications started in seven minutes. I rushed through the library, dodging tables and students, and practically ran down the stairs and into the lobby.

  Evil? Good! (evil?) No, very good! My sense screamed loudly, surprising me.

  I stopped dead in my tracks and my eyes scanned the area. Did they find me again? No. Everyone here looked perfectly normal, going about their business of checking out books at the nearby front desk. No one paid me any attention. But that wasn’t the only reason the alarms surprised me. My sense had never questioned itself before, never sounded so confused. What’s going on? Who is it? I inhaled a deep breath. My sense had settled on good. That’s all that mattered. And I didn’t have time to worry about anything else. I had to go or I’d be late.

  I rounded the corner to the door and slammed right into a large, hard body. Sweet and tangy. Mmm . . . . Having a powerful sense of smell was often unpleasant, but it was worth suffering through bad body odor and nasty garbage for this. He smelled delicious. But he sounded annoyed or angry as a low growl rumbled in his chest.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  I looked up to see the face belonging to such yumminess. Whoa! Talk about yummy! He was absolutely gorgeous. Too gorgeous. I looked away immediately, embarrassed by my behavior. I bent down to gather the papers I dropped—and so did he. To complete my humiliation, I shocked him with static electricity when our fingers touched. I blushed. He chuckled quietly.

  “Alexis Ames,” he murmured under his breath. If it hadn’t been my own name, I wouldn’t have even understood—he said it so quietly. His thumb underlined my name on the class schedule he handed back to me. I took it, mumbled “thank-you” and bolted.

  I hurried across campus, slipped inside the classroom with a minute to spare and took the closest open seat, where a syllabus already waited on the desk. The instructor stood at the head of the room, carefully watching the clock above the door. He started his introductions at six o’clock sharp and rudely rebuked a couple of students who arrived late, commenting that tardiness was a sign of disrespect. As if his tone was not. Note to self: Be on time for this one.

  I’d felt the burn of eyes on me when I walked in the door and took my seat. Normally I would have disregarded it. I was used to it, especially the last couple months of high school, when everyone was curious about my burn. But as I sat there, trying to listen to the professor as he monotonously listed his credentials, I could feel the eyes again, making the back of my neck tingle. It wasn’t a threatening feeling, but an uncomfortable sensation of curious eyes. I glanced over my shoulder, pretending to check out the classroom. Oops. I was caught. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  Wow. Beautiful. That was all I could think through the haze filling my brain, obscuring any other thoughts. I never understood how a guy could be considered beautiful until now. He was stunningly attractive like Mom was—beyond what should be allowed for any human.

  His eyes held mine until I finally came to my senses and pulled away. He smiled as I slid my eyes to the front of the room. And then it hit me. Oh, no! Why me?! I had barely glanced at him the first time, but I knew without a doubt: he was the same guy I’d run into like an idiot less than five minutes ago. Apparently, he recognized me, too, and found it funny. I wished one of my quirks was the ability to disappear. And I wondered how he’d beat me to class.

  “Most of your projects will be done as teams,” the professor droned. “You’ll be with the same team throughout the semester. I won’t make any changes, so I suggest you learn to work out any differences. Your team number is in the upper-right corner of the first page of your syllabus. Your first project is due next week, so get into your groups now to make introductions and get started.”

  The professor was the type high-school students fretted about when they thought of college—demanding, commanding, condescending, anal-retentive. He was nothing like my other instructors. My calculus teacher would make the subject bearable because at night he was a stand-up comedian and his one-liners were laugh-out-loud funny. A funny mathematician—not an oxymoron. Who knew? My women’s studies instructor was the eccentric cat-woman. Not the superhero, but the crazy, old maid who lived with a bunch of cats.

  Based on Mr. Anal’s instructions of where teams should gather, I didn’t have to move. Two girls—one a cute, girl-next-door blonde and the other a scowling, black-haired Goth—and two guys joined me in our designated section of the room.

  Including Mr. Beautiful.

  Of course. Just my luck.

  He was the last to join us, after switching his syllabus with one on an empty desk—he wanted to be in our group and I figured he knew somebody. When he headed our way, his athletic build straining against his shirt, even Ms. Grumpy Goth straightened up and smiled slightly. But then I caught a quick, but odd reaction from the other three and I knew immediately he hadn’t chosen our group because he knew anyone.

  Mr. Beautiful nodded at each of us as he took a seat and the others shrunk back slightly. A look of fear, or maybe just astonishment, flickered in their eyes. A slight smile played on his lips when he looked at me last. I couldn’t figure out what the others saw because I didn’t notice anything. Well, I did notice something, but nothing warranting that kind of reaction. My sense remained quiet.

  Then I realized there was something—a strange nudge in the back of my mind. There was something different but unidentifiable about him. I could barely introduce myself before I zoned out through the other introductions and tried unsuccessfully to determine the nudge’s meaning.

  During a break halfway through class, I bought a soda and wandered outside. The hot, heavy air wasn’t exactly refreshing, but it was a nice break from the closed up, conditioned air inside. The sun had officially set and the sky was still a pinkish-purple in the west, the tops of two palm trees silhouetted against it. A couple of people sat on the top step, talking. I walked down the stairs and leaned against a lamppost, sipping my drink.

  “Alexis, right?” a silky, sexy voice asked behind me, making me jump and slosh soda over my hand.

  I turned to see Mr. Beautiful. Of course he would sound lovely. I already knew he smelled good, too. Yep. He strode over to me and I could really take in the scents. Hmmm … sweet, like mangos and papayas, citrusy like lime, and spicy like … hmmm … I think sage … and just a hint of man. My quirky sense of smell was not only stronger than normal, but also allowed me to pick out the individual layers of a complex scent. His was natural—it didn’t have the chemical undertone like cologne or soaps did—a fresh fragrance, making me think of sitting in the sun on a warm day.

  “Uh, yeah,” I muttered. The lamp over us cast its light directly on his spellbinding face, making my mind foggy and unable to form coherent words.

  It wasn’t right for a guy to be so incredibly attractive. Besides how tall he stood—towering at least a foot over my five-two—I noticed his hazel eyes first. They pulled me into their staggering beauty, with a wide ring of emerald green on the outside of the irises and brown around the pupils with gold specks that seemed to . . . sparkle. They were fringed with such long, dark lashes that it was unfair they were on a guy. His facial features were flawless—a square jaw, full lips and a golden suntan—better than any movie star or model. Sandy brown hair, longer on top and streaked by the sun, topped off his perfection. And then he smiled magnificently and the gold flecks in his eyes sparkled brighter, like when the sun hits gold flakes in a mining pan. My brain slid out the exit door and my insides melted like chocolate. Get a grip!

  I tried t
o remember his name. He had to have introduced himself to the team. I must have been really focused on that mind nudge, because I drew a blank.

  “I’m Tristan . . . in case you didn’t catch it.”

  I nodded as if I knew. “Yeah, nice to meet you, Tristan. Um, sorry about running into you earlier.”

  “I’m not,” he murmured so quietly, I probably wasn’t supposed to have heard.

  We both stood there awkwardly . . . well, I felt awkward, anyway. I expected him to leave, but, strangely, he didn’t.

  “So . . . how was your first day of classes?” he finally asked.

  I looked up at him in surprise. Why are you talking to me? No one talks to me.

  “Uh, fine, I guess. You?”

  “This is my only class today and, so far, it’s perfect.” He chuckled, as if there were some underlying meaning to his answer.

  “Lucky. This is my third.”

  “Busy day.” Another moment of awkward silence passed before he continued, probably thinking it rude to walk off now. “This is my only class this semester, actually. Too much other stuff going on to take a full load right now.”

  I told him I could relate and, for some reason, babbled through my entire schedule, my hand flitting anxiously between twirling the tab of my soda can and tugging at my hair.

  “Women’s studies, huh?” He lifted an eyebrow, a gleam in his eyes. “Maybe I should look into that one. Sounds . . . interesting.”

  I laughed. It sounded unusually high, anxious. “It’s almost all girls . . . but I’m sure they wouldn’t kick you out.”

  Did I really just say that aloud? I blushed. He laughed, the pleasurable sound making my heart flip.

  I struggled to concentrate through the rest of class, mentally replaying the five-minute conversation with Tristan and chastising myself for acting like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

  “Which dorm are you in?” the blond girl-next-door asked me after class. I thought someone called her Carlie.