by Dyan Brown
“What is next?” My voice hardly comes out as more than a whisper, so I clear my throat before trying again. “How am I going to convince others, who may not even know they’re Divinely Touched, to join me in this fight?” The question has been on my mind for weeks.
He leans forward with his forearms resting on his knees. “You’d be surprised how many people know their history, but for those who don’t, you’ll need to be the one to let them know about their gift. Letting someone know the world they trust is not as it seems is no easy task. Trust me.”
Cedrick rubs his hands together slowly and thoughtfully, as if reminiscing. “How has anyone ever convinced anyone else to go to war? You boil it down to the basics: This is my cause. This is how it affects you. This is the result if we fail, and this is the result if we succeed.”
I want to tell him how helpful these vague explanations are, but I bite my lip instead. Whether I feel his advice is helpful or not, it’s all the advice I’m getting and I cannot do without it.
Freaking Uncle Carl.
“I’ll start looking for recruits in the morning,” I say. “Thank you for stitching me up.” I hold up my bandaged arm, and he nods at me. “Good night,” I breathe as I rise to go lie down, my lips barely leaving their pressed line.
As I’m rounding the corner of my bed, Cedrick grabs my upper arm, shocking me a little and making me gasp as I look over my shoulder at his hand. Even through my long sleeves, his hand feels hot as fire.
“Don’t. Do. It,” he spits at me.
My eyes shoot to his, my mouth falling open in utter confusion. I blink a few times, but the flames of his palm are suddenly gone, along with him.
“What the fuck?” I whisper to the empty room.
18
I am so groggy when I wake up I hardly notice that the throbbing in my arm has died down to a dull roar. Cedrick’s anger lingers in my mind, though, as I dress for work. Thank God the temperature has dropped enough that long sleeves aren’t completely out of place. I pull on jeans, a long-sleeved V-neck, and tennis shoes.
Right on cue, my phone lights up with Grayson’s text saying my chauffeur awaits. As tired as I am, my heart skips and a smile creeps onto my face. I love that I still get the feeling of butterflies deep in my belly when I’m about to see him. One last check in the mirror tells me I need to invest in cover up for the bags under my eyes. I pinch my cheeks and put on tinted lip gloss to appear alive.
I grab our travel mugs and head out to the truck. As always, Grayson is waiting outside the passenger door to open it for me. My heart flutters again as I walk toward him. His striking blue eyes light up the moment they meet mine, just as a shy smile edges onto my lips. His crisp, navy polo is tucked perfectly into his jeans.
I can’t wait till he walks around the truck and I can get another look at his ass, I think to myself. I swear, the man could wear a chicken suit and still look hot.
After handing him his coffee, my hand instinctively moves to my locket. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says with the smirk I now know all too well. His free hand comes up, and he lifts my chin with a finger, sliding his thumb gently across my lips. He dips his mouth down to meet mine.
He has kissed me every morning for the past three months, and yet it still makes my belly quiver. I don’t know where he gets his restraint. Just one little kiss has me ready for him to rip off my clothes and take me on the hard concrete of the parking lot.
Blushing at my hormonal reaction, I brighten my smile, but I can’t help looking down.
“Did you sleep okay, Samantha?" He sweeps a stray curl off my shoulder. “You look tired.”
My eyes dart up to his. “Nah, not really. Guess all this homecoming stuff has me tossing and turning some.”
“Why? Just meeting the guys?” he asks, frowning at me. “You know they aren’t that bad. You’ve met a few already. They were nice, right?”
I press my lips together. “Yes. Jay was nice, and Evan was, too,” I say, avoiding the words you’re all rich and I’m not.
A small, hopeful smile replaces his recently formed frown. “Jay thinks you and Abby will get along great, too!”
“Yeah. It’ll be great,” I say weakly, trying not to show how exhausted I really am from being up half the night fighting dumbasses.
“It will be great Samantha. You’ll see.” He kisses the center of my forehead—my favorite thing. It brings an honest smile to my face. I nod sincerely when he pulls back from another small kiss.
“Come on, now. We don’t want to be late.” Grayson opens the passenger door so I can slide in. I put my bag at my feet, its normal spot on our morning and afternoon drives. As short as they are, I still depend on them like water. My bike is collecting ever so much dust on its hook on the patio.
My morning Physics 101 class goes as it always does. Professor Dewet drones on for an hour and a half about particle theory, and we’re told to read the next chapter as homework. I’m sure he’ll repeat the same, boring lecture process next week.
Yay, so exciting…
After class, I head to my “job.” I’ve been dreading this all morning. I know Uncle Carl knows I’ve been drifting. The more I reflect on last night, the more I realize I could have been killed. In the heat of battle my fear is suppressed, but later it always floods back. I feel like the pain and fear shows in my features, giving all my secrets away.
Walking through campus, I brace myself for Uncle Carl’s insightful gaze. I know my resentment toward him has become increasingly obvious since I started “working” for him. He’s the one who’s supposed to guide and train me. For him to deliberately withhold training to keep me from doing what we were both chosen by God to do—just because his life didn’t go the way he wanted it to—is simply unfair. I haven’t ever really fought him on it, but after having my inquiries disregarded so many times, I just gave up.
I tug my long sleeves down a smidge before entering his office. He’s at his desk, his usual position for grading papers or preparing a lecture. We mutter ‘hellos,’ and I go to my desk by the window to start on the stack of papers he’s left for me.
Hours pass in grateful silence. I finish highlighting the various texts for his course notes about creepy experimental studies of the 1800s. By the end of them, I’m suddenly incredibly happy I’m not interested in his field. Throughout most of that time, I can see his face in my peripheral vision. The soft, nearly invisible hair on my skin seems to lean in that direction, pointing straight back at his glare. But if he isn’t asking, I’m not telling.
I put the disturbing pile of papers back onto his desk to indicate I’m done. He gives me a side-glance without lifting his head but says nothing. Without pause, I head back to my bag, retrieve my over-priced physics book, and sit on the love seat to read the assigned chapter.
He lets me read for all of ten minutes before he comes and sits in front of me on the coffee table like we’re facing off. When I see the expression on his face, I hug the open book to my chest, waiting for the lecture to begin.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Studying.”
“Don’t be a smartass, Sam! Do you think I can’t tell when you drift?”
My jaw tightens. Of course I remember him saying he could. I’d just hoped he was still numbing out on meds.
His face starts to redden with anger. “I am your Preceptor! I can feel it!”
My eyes lower from his scolding, and I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. I alternate between biting the inside of my lip and clenching my jaw. I’m trying not to say what I want and what I know I’ll later regret. Taking a deep breath, I try another route.
“I’m doing well, and you know it!” I spit out low and sharp.
I see my uncle’s nostrils flair and his jaw clench like mine. “And you have no idea the amount of danger you’re putting us in by doing it.”
“What danger can possibly be caused by helping people in the way we’re chosen to? By God?
” I know the answer, but I’m not going down without a fight for what I know I should be doing. I can feel my face flushing as quickly as our voices escalate.
“The Guild will find you!”
“Good! Bring them on!” I slam my book closed and bolt up from the love seat, going for my bag. “Screw this!”
“Excuse me?” He is angrier than I’ve ever seen him, and I stifle a cry of surprise as he grabs my elbow. “You will listen to me, young lady!”
I can feel the rage vibrating through his grip and going into my arm. My jaw is locked so hard that pain is shooting down the side of my neck. I want to run. I want to cry. I want to punch something.
“What!” I yell, practically shouting in his face.
His voice is a low, warning hiss. “I will not let you put Jason’s life in danger. Drifting puts our whole family at risk. He is all I have left, and I won’t risk his life just so you can pretend you’re some sort of superhero!” He releases my arm. “Don’t push me on this, Sam.”
Great, now I have two sore arms.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask, rubbing my elbow. In that moment, I see hardcore, full-blown guilt flood his face. “What is it?” I demand after a breath. “You cannot demand that I listen, give me half the reason you don’t want me to do the one thing I’ve finally found that gives my life purpose since Sahra died, and then expect me to not want the full truth.”
“I’m your mentor. I don’t have to answer to you.”
“Really? Mentor? Could’ve fooled me!” His lips part in shock, and I move across to my bag, still hanging on the back of my chair at my desk.
This is such bullshit!
I hear him walk back to his desk and start shuffling things about. I shove my book back into my bag and yank the zipper closed. We finish our rumblings at the same time. I head to the door, but Uncle Carl is already crossing the room to cut me off. He slams his hand flat on the door just above my head as I reach the knob, and I huff.
“Please.” He takes a breath. “Please, stop drifting, Sam.” He’s forced his voice to sound even-tempered, but I can tell he’s still fuming. I’m not fooled.
“What happened six hundred years ago?” I retort.
“What?”
“What happened the last time a sibling took over drifting after the other died?” I say, enunciating as clearly as possible. I know he knows. I just need him to admit it.
He just gawks at me. As I lift my hand to unlock the door, he grabs my forearm, and I cry out in pain. Yanking my arm back is useless.
“What the…”
He grabs my wrist and jerks my sleeve up, revealing my fresh stitches. The false calm he’d tried to muster only moments ago is gone in an instant. “God’s work is going to get you killed.” He throws my arm back at me like it’s a dead fish rather than my limb, then paces his office in a few quick steps.
Watching the anger play across his face, I distantly wonder if he would ever actually hit me.
“You want to know what happened to the last Drifter who took over for her sibling?” He spits out the words. “She was burned alive!”
I roll my eyes and unlock the door. I have the door open about an inch before he repeats his block, slamming it shut. “You will stop drifting, or else!”
I shift my weight back onto my left leg and cross my arms. “Or else what?” What is he going to do? Drug me every night?
“Or else I’ll have you locked up.”
I jerk my head back and freeze, eyes wide in shock.
“I’ll tell your parents and the school board that you’ve lost it and have started cutting yourself, and that I think you’re having realistic delusions. That you’re showing signs of schizophrenia and require immediate isolation.”
I shake my head slightly, stunned at his nerve. “You have no proof other than a single cut, and that could’ve been an accident. It’s even stitched. I have no other wounds, and you have no other proof.”
“Remember your dream journal entry?”
He may as well have slapped me. Utter betrayal floods me as I remember him ripping out everything about Jack and shoving it into his pocket. I look down at his hands and see the same light blue, lined pages from my journal, still crumpled-looking but now folded up. I thought he’d thrown those pages away or burned them. My mouth drops open, and my eyes sting with tears.
“You wouldn’t,” I say, my voice barely audible.
“To stop you from basically committing suicide and possibly dragging the only person I have left in the world down with you? You bet your ass I would!” he shouts, waving the pages about while he speaks, then shoving them back into his pocket. “You will not start a war that’s none of your business, and you will stop drifting, or I’ll have you locked up and sedated indefinitely!”
He takes a deep breath, composing himself. “I’ll give you a week to get over being mad at me and to come to the right decision.” And with that, he lifts his palm off the door, opens it slightly, and walks back to his desk without another word. I stare after him for a moment, and then throw myself out the door, slamming it behind me. I head down the hall to the left and into the ladies’ room before anyone can see the tears forging paths down my cheeks.
I brace myself on the sink, grateful to be alone. Giving myself just a moment, I let my tears fall, every one of them an emotion all their own: fear, betrayal, anger, grief, hurt, and defeat all pour from me. In a sense, it feels good to feel all this. For months now, I’ve been numb except for when I’m with Grayson. But even he leaves me frustrated every time we’re together; my life is all buildup and no release.
I start wiping away the salty emotion rolling from my eyes down to my shirt collar. War is what I need. If I don’t figure out how to stop the Harvest Guild, it could very well be another six hundred years before another is called upon to draw the Divinely Touched together to battle their foe.
Which reminds me—I still need to ask Cedrick about the last chosen. Again. He always avoids the subject. Guess he also thinks the fact that she died doing the same thing I’m about to do will stop me…
Well, so sorry, boys. I’m much too stubborn—and now, much too pissed off—for that!
19
I braid my hair, splash my face with cold water, and put my earbuds in as I walk home. It’ll be another hour before Grayson is done with his economics class, and I can be home in fifteen minutes, easy.
I’m so grateful I still have my sunglasses stuffed in the bottom of my bag to cover my blotchy eyes. There’s no better way to bring me to sudden tears than to ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ or ‘Are you all right?’ while I’m still trying to pull my shit together. Just so I don’t give myself too much of a chance to think, I put “Bad Reputation” on repeat.
This really is my favorite time of year, and Oklahoma does it justice—I’ve always thought that. The leaves’ edging is turning, flashing hints of bright reds, yellows, and oranges as the wind rustles them on their branches. Fall has a smell all its own, and despite the pounding from my earbuds, I find it calming.
When I reach our apartment, I open the door and head straight for the fridge. The bottled water feels ice-cold as it slides down my parched throat, and I drain half the bottle in one long draw. Pausing for breath, I look around our little apartment, thinking.
Something is… off.
Finally, out of the corner of my eye, I see something hanging on April’s doorknob.
Oh… Dear… God.
A hot pink thong, which I could have gone the whole four years of college without seeing, is hanging on her doorknob by its thin hip string. I take an earbud out of one ear, making sure the noises coming from behind the door are sounds of pleasure. Satisfied that she’s there of her own will, I secure the bud back in my ear, turn up the volume, and head to my bedroom to nurse the stab of jealousy my stomach just received.
I shut the door quietly, even though I’d like to slam it so hard it’d make the hinges fall off her door and burst whatever bubble of intimacy she’s i
n, but there are two reasons I don’t. One, it’s not her fault the one man I’d willingly let inside me, in every way, is dead set against any premarital penetration. Two, I really don’t want to deal with her gloating about how great her sex life is. If she thinks I don’t know, the less likely she is to boast.
I lean my back against the inside of my door and try to will my body to relax. Between Carl trying to force me to stop drifting, Cedrick running hot and cold during my training, April’s sex life heating up, and my own sex life staying cold as ice, I’m at my breaking point for the day. Or year. Or life.
My fists curl into balls, shaking from the need to punch something out of the frustration I feel. Actually, that’s exactly what I need—to hit something. I throw my bag on the bed, text Grayson that he can pick me up outside the apartment when class lets out, and grab a change of clothes.
Finally, in the bathroom with three doors between us, I feel comfortable enough to take my earbuds out. Still, I turn on the sink for ambient noise just in case there’s any giggling or intimate wailing. I change bras, put on an old, gray, long-sleeved tee, and step into some yoga pants before replacing the buds.
I change the song to “Grenade” while putting on my sneakers, letting the new beat sink into me. Refilling my water on the way out, I lock April and her man of the hour back in.
I fear for the guy if Grayson finds out what she’s doing right now, and I really don’t have time for that drama. I need to beat out the frustration and fear that are liable to drown me if I let them stew. I walk down the side of the building and toward a small patch of grass where I can stretch, and Grayson can see me easier.
I’ve been warming up my muscles no longer than five minutes before my valiant savior comes rolling up. I unhook an earbud as he gets out before I can get in.
“What’s wrong? What happened? Why did you walk home? Are you okay? You should have told me you wanted to come home; you know I’d have left class…”
I hold up my hands to defend against the onslaught of questions being fired at me in a single breath. “Breathe, Grayson, jeez! I’m all right. Chill. I just needed to walk.”