Havenwood Falls High Volume Two

by Cameo Renae

  “I’ve got four months.”

  “Breckin,” he warns.

  “See what you can find out about the reaper and keep Father and the Court away. I’ll protect her no matter what, but I could use your help. Please.”

  “Feeling a bit possessive, are you?”

  I look at Vivienne in the mirror. “I’m feeling a whole lot possessive.”

  “Of course you are. You’re an angel, and angels don’t like others messing with what belongs to us.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  The call ends with Elias promising me a message as soon as he has information. Vivienne stands, and I turn with a shrug. “There’s a lot I can’t tell you. Things about Havenwood Falls you’re not allowed to know.”

  “There are other angels here?” she asks as she walks across the living room. I nod. “You’re protecting them from me?”

  “Not exactly, but I suppose in a way, yes. The less you know the better.”

  “The reaper called you a half-breed like it was a dirty word. Why?”

  “Angels weren’t created to reproduce with humans. They should have been happy in Paradise, but they weren’t. They wanted more. It was forbidden and caused dissent.” I rub the back of my neck. “It’s really an issue thousands of years in the making.”

  Her head bobs in understanding. I’d expected more questions.

  “What are you feeling possessive over?” she asks, nodding toward my phone as her lips curve seductively. I doubt she knows she’s doing it. She’s always had this alluring innocence about her.

  “I’m two parts of one whole. I’m human, but I’m also angel. My angel side has staked a claim.”

  She inches forward. “Staked a claim?” Her brow lifts. “On me?”

  “It’s what the reaper sensed. I don’t control my angelic emotions as well as I should. I didn’t mask my feelings yesterday, or tonight.”

  She stops an arm’s length away and looks at the floor. “Why did you save me? Would you have stopped for anyone?”

  No. I witnessed vampires kill a few months ago. I did nothing. Why was yesterday different? I don’t have the answer, but I’d like one. I debate her questions too long. Vivienne clears her throat and crosses her arms.

  “You just did, is that it? For no reason?” Her voice trembles. “I don’t remember much, but it was quick. Something knocked me down, and there was indescribable pain. That’s it. That’s all I recall. I should have died. I should have died, but you saved me, and now here I am.”

  I cave, the human and the angel. Her emotions, her fear—it’s too much for me. Snatching her by the waist, I pull her into my arms. “It wasn’t for no reason. There’s something about you. I should have flown right on by, but something hooked me.” My nose burns with the memory. The smell was foreign. “The scent of your blood, something . . . it called to me. I didn’t have a choice.”

  I shake my head, frustrated at having so many questions, and so few answers. Vivienne grimaces. “Is there something wrong with my blood?”

  The answer to that would open a whole new can of worms. One issue at a time.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you or your blood. I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to take in. Trust me, I’m afraid I killed you by saving your life. I thought I could erase your memory, and everything would go back to normal. I didn’t expect a psycho reaper or these feelings.”

  Her eyes light up. “I thought feelings were a weakness?”

  “As a human, they are. They make you soft. As an angel, though . . . the angel is smarter than the human. He’s enamored with you. I can’t do anything about that, and I will protect what’s mine, Vivie.”

  She leans into me, her hands settling on my hips. “So you are staking a claim.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  She glances down, before raising her eyes to mine. “I like it when you call me Vivie.”

  Her body against mine ignites desire, and I curl my fingers into her sweater as my wings beg for release. “Do you?”

  She nods with a smirk. My head lowers; my lips find hers, brushing a quick kiss before drawing back.

  Vivienne’s hands slip up my chest, wrapping around my neck and tugging me back. Her lips toy with mine, pressing small kisses back and forth over and over but never drawing me in. My pulse accelerates, and fire ignites in my veins, spreading quickly. Vivienne yelps as I pick her up and plop her on the kitchen counter behind us.

  She leans back when I move to kiss her again. “Angel strength?”

  “That, and you’re five foot nothing.” I wink and move between her knees, happy she’s somewhat level with me.

  “We can’t all be perfectly built angels.”

  I’m perfectly built? I study her. The delicate, heart-shaped face, her pouting lips, her silky hair, the graceful ballerina limbs on her petite frame. Anyone with a sinister mind could snap her in two without breaking a sweat. I brush my knuckles across her cheek, my fingers sliding into her hair and moving it from her face. “Everything about you is perfect. Too perfect for me.”

  We meet halfway. Her mouth opens, allowing me a small taste. I mold my lips to hers, and her socked feet hook around my thighs, drawing me closer.

  “What is happening between us, Breck?” she asks as her fingers lose themselves in my hair. “What is this?”

  There’s so much confusion written on her face. I feel it, too.

  “I don’t know.”

  It’s the most honest thing I can say. A switch flipped last night when I healed her. No, before I healed her. Things changed when I heard her scream. I know plenty of shifters. I’m aware of how they find mates. Angels don’t have mates, we don’t imprint, but I swear to the maker, this girl imprinted on me. On all of me—the divine side, as well as my soul.

  Demons at the Door

  Vivienne

  I toss and flip to my stomach, hiding my head beneath a pillow as thumping bass rattles my headboard. Why do the neighbors insist on blaring their music on the weekends?

  Three raps at my door wake me further. “What?” I whine, my feet flailing like a kid having a temper tantrum.

  “Hey, sleepyhead, you getting up?” Mom pops her head in.

  “Sleepyhead?” I roll to my back, and my eyes focus on Mom’s jeans and sweater. “What time is it?” She typically sleeps until after lunch when she works nights. Why is she up this early? Even her blond hair is fixed in a no-fuss braid, instead of her usual work ponytail.

  “It’s after noon. I thought we could go to lunch and do a little shopping today.”

  After noon? I push up from the bed, and a wave of nausea hits me.

  “I can’t believe you’re still sleeping. You’re usually the one waking me on Sundays. Did you and Zara stay out all night partying?” She steps farther into the room, no real accusation in her words. She knows us better than that, but . . . I clutch my stomach.

  “Viv?” She’s across the room and pushing back my hair, the back of her hand on my forehead before I can blink. “Are you not feeling well?” She turns my face to hers. “You’re pale, but not feverish. You look tired.”

  “I must have picked up a bug at school. I’m okay, just a little green.”

  She leans in, her light eyes searching. “Well, shoot. We need to Christmas shop.”

  “You go then. I can take care of myself.” Fear settles around me. I pull a pillow to my chest.

  “I’ll shop tomorrow. How about I make my famous grilled cheeses and we find a good movie to watch?” She pats my knee as I nod. “I’ll start lunch.”

  She crosses my room, grabbing a dirty cup from my dresser before turning. “You must have been tired to fall asleep in your clothes. You haven’t done that since you were six,” she says with a smile, pulling the door closed behind her.

  My head spins, and I grab my hair to keep it in place. My clothes? I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. I bolt for my bathroom and lose the meager contents of my stomach.

  We spend the afternoon watching movies on th
e couch. This is a normal Sunday for us, but everything feels wrong. I check my phone, re-reading the text I sent Zara last night:

  Decided against going to the clinic. Went home instead, feeling okay but tired. Enjoy movie night and I’ll see you Monday.

  I recall the Burger Bar. I have a vague memory of snow and being cold. A flash of fire—and nothing else. No memory of texting Zara. No memory of coming home. Mom laughs at a scene in our third romantic comedy, and I tuck my legs closer. My chest is empty, like something is missing. I close my eyes as they burn with tears. Whether from my raging headache or because of the gaping hole, I can’t be sure. What is going on with me?

  * * *

  By the time Zara arrives outside my apartment building Monday morning, I’ve run through every scenario imaginable. Maybe someone slipped drugs into my food Saturday night? Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve been sucked into some alternate universe, like in the last book I read.

  “Your carriage, my lady,” Zara shouts through the open passenger side window as I lock the apartment and hurry to the car.

  I toss my backpack over the seat and jump in. “You’re letting all the heat out.”

  “Feeling better?” she asks as I buckle my seatbelt and get situated.

  I consider confiding in her, then swiftly change my mind. What would I say? I keep seeing her standing beside me outside my apartment window, calling me paranoid. When was that? It must be recent, and yet I can’t recall. Nope. I can’t tell her.

  “All better.” I switch the air vents to warm my gloved hands and change the subject. “Tell me about the movies.”

  Zara gasps as she shifts into drive. “Girl. I finally confirmed it with my own two eyes. Graysin Ravenal and Everett Weston are dating.”

  “I thought we’d already confirmed that.”

  “It was rumor. Now we can mark it down as fact. They are so freaking gorgeous together. I kind of hate her. I want an Everett of my own.”

  “Z, he’s gotta be pushing thirty.”

  “Twenty-eight,” she corrects. “I think I need an older man. I’m sick of the boys we have to pick from at school. They’re ridiculous. Saturday night—” I bend over, re-tying the laces on my boots as Zara complains. “—then a bunch of the guys from the football team started shoving each other and screwing around. I swear, they act like wild animals. How they get dates is beyond me.”

  “They’re all tall, dark, and gorgeous.” Tossing my hair, I sit up and look out the front windshield.

  Zara sighs. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  I should remind her how she sat on the knee of one of those football players, flirting wildly during lunch Friday. My mouth opens to do just that when a dark figure captures my attention. We’re stopped at the light at Eighth and Main, and he’s leaning against the side of Pyntz Butcher Shoppe looking like sin—all pale skin, jet black hair, and dark clothing.

  “Z, do you see him?” I grab Zara’s forearm, my gaze fixated on the guy. “Across the street.”

  “Who? Mr. Emo?” The light changes, and we pull forward. “Isn’t that the guy from Saturday?” She squints as we turn onto Main with the traffic and pass a sidewalk width from him.

  From Saturday? Vibrant blue eyes flash, and my stomach drops. Too afraid to turn in my seat, I check the side mirror. Sweat peppers my forehead as he watches us drive away. My body goes cold.

  “He’s creepy.” I force my eyes to stop looking.

  Zara pshaws. “Creepy? I thought you two were going to need a room after the way you stared each other down the other night. Then he disappeared and you left—” Zara inhales sharply, slapping her palm against the steering wheel. “You liar! You didn’t get sick, did you? You left with him.”

  “What? No. Are you kidding? I don’t even know him.” I twist, looking for the stranger over my shoulder. It’s cold and not yet eight in the morning, making him easy to spot on the mostly vacant sidewalk.

  “Well, he must be stalking you then, because that’s the guy from the other night. You should totally talk to him next time you see him. He’s hot.” Zara’s finger jabs my side as I watch the object of our conversation.

  He walks quickly—too quickly. I do a double-take, surprised at how close he is. He removes his hand from the pocket of his long black coat, and my head fills with visions of him pulling a gun and shooting, like some gangster. Instead he lifts his hand to chest level and moves it from left to right. Strange, but nothing like a shootout.

  Chiding my ridiculous imagination, I turn back to the front. “Z, I think I’m—”

  “Watch out!” Zara screams. Her hands grip the steering wheel as the car jerks and skids along the ice-painted road.

  Car horns blare, my seatbelt locks across my chest, and someone shouts, as a city tour bus stops, sideways, five feet from my door.

  “You girls okay?” a voice asks, followed by tapping on the window. Words fail me. My body shakes. Zara’s curses fill the car, as do her thanks. “Vivienne? Zara?”

  At the sound of my name, I look up and find Mr. Zander from school jiggling the handle to my door, his face concerned. My hand reaches forward and unlocks the car door, pushing as he pulls it open.

  We’re an hour late for school by the time Sheriff Kasun finishes with us. No one was hurt, nothing damaged.

  “I swear, Viv. Our light was green. The bus driver wasn’t paying attention.” Zara yanks the school door open, the heat welcoming after standing outside.

  “We’re fine. I’m not mad.” I check my watch. “Let’s hurry and get excuse slips. The bell’s about to ring.”

  “You’re not mad, but I am. He could have killed you,” she says, her face still devoid of color as we walk toward the administration office. “How are you so calm? That bus barreling toward us won’t stop flashing through my mind. That’s my second near miss this semester! I’ll have nightmares for weeks, and you probably want to stop riding with me.”

  I stop walking and push her to the edge of the hallway. “Look at me.” She does, and her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “That thing with Willa was all on her. Not your fault. Neither was this. We’re both safe. We’re safe, Z,” I repeat, hugging her as the class bell sounds. “Come on.”

  We secure tardy slips from the office and head separate ways. I duck my head and attempt maneuvering the crowded halls of Havenwood Falls High without being stopped. A few students drove around our near-wreck this morning, their faces gawking like typical rubberneckers, which meant the whole school was aware before first period. Not in the mood for discussion, I slip into chemistry instead of hanging in the hall as I normally would. Three other students are already in their seats as I walk down my aisle.

  Electricity shocks my wrist, and I gasp, twisting to find my arm in Breckin Roberts’ grip. My pulse accelerates.

  “Sorry.” Breckin removes his hand, balling his fingers into a fist as he leans back and looks up at me. I stare as undecipherable whispers nag at the back of my mind. “Rumor has it you and Zara Shannon almost collided with a bus this morning. You okay?”

  There’s an edge to his voice as his eyes search me from head to toe like he’s checking for injuries.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I drop my backpack to the floor and lower into my chair. What was that? Breckin and I have barely spoken since elementary school. He defended me from a few jerks in town freshman year, but other than that . . . The sensation of being watched crawls up my spine. The knowledge that Breckin’s eyes are fastened on my back sends me scooching down until my neck presses against the back of the chair and my butt hangs over the seat edge. Thank goodness I’m short.

  I close my eyes and replay everything from this morning. Those blue eyes penetrate the thick layers of fog surrounding my mind. I know him. I do, but how?

  More students walk into class, their laughter and conversations making me an outsider. A few people say hi. I offer vague smiles as the seats around me fill up.

  “Hey, Viv. I saw Zara in the hallway. You two must have had a guardian angel watch
ing over you this morning, huh?” Zal Purser asks as she tugs on the turquoise beads around her neck.

  I half fall out of my desk, my heart rate accelerating as I lurch into a sitting position. “What did you say?” I ask, my voice unfamiliar to my own ears.

  “I said you must have a guardian angel looking out for you.”

  Angel. My head whips toward Breckin. He’s watching, his amber eyes narrow, his jaw tight. Guardian angel. Blue eyes. Angel, angel, angel . . .

  Dark spots fill my vision. I sway in my seat, grasping at the edge of my desk, when a hard body presses against my shoulder and arms wrap around me.

  Heat blows around my cheek. “Vivie?”

  Vivie. The lock unlatches, and memories rush in. The animal attack, the reaper, the bathroom at Burger Bar, Breckin’s kisses. I suck shallow breaths, recalling the danger, the warnings. The way the reaper waved a hand this morning and how a bus almost killed me.

  “Breck!” I turn into his chest and grab his shirt. “It was him. The bus, this morning . . . I know it was.”

  Then I see his hands at my waist as he lifts me onto a counter at his house and his smile as his lips descend on mine. My gasp is audible. Saturday night. He erased my memory?

  Someone calls our teacher as Breckin rubs my arms and helps me stand, supporting most of my weight.

  “Vivienne?” Heels click against the floor as she nears.

  “I’ll take her to the office. She’s still freaked out about this morning,” Breckin offers, his voice take-charge and firm.

  Breckin grabs my bag and escorts me from class. My eyes focus straight ahead, ignoring the curious glances, especially from friends. They’re probably wondering when Breckin Roberts and I became close enough for me to cling to him as though my life depends on it.

  The hall is empty, the bell having already rung, but neither of us speaks as he ushers me down the corridor and around a corner, where he opens a door and pulls me inside. We’re in a janitor’s closet, the scent of bleach and bathroom soap overwhelming.