by Potter, Ryan
PERENNIAL
PERENNIAL
Ryan Potter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 Ryan Potter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Skyscape, New York
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Skyscape are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781477868188
Cover design by The Book Designers
Table of Contents
Episode 1
Prologue: Dream Guy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Episode 2
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Episode 3
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Episode 4
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Episode 5
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Episode 6
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Episode 7
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Kindle Serials
Episode 1
Prologue: Dream Guy
He first appears late at night in a dream. Except “appears” is the wrong word. In the beginning there is no physical presence. That takes time. That takes trust. It’s simply a feeling, innocent and unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, an awareness of a male presence my age.
Soft and cloudy white light as far as I can see. I feel like I’m floating through a sea of illuminated cotton. Part of me wonders if I’ve died in my sleep.
Moving forward through the warm light now, getting closer to his presence. It’s attractive in a way that suddenly worries me, and panic sets in when I look down and don’t see my body. Like the presence, I’m here, but not physically. Rather, I’m a human soul encapsulated within an orb of light.
Danger and uncertainty now trump curiosity. I want out. Please let me awaken and get ready for my school day. Nothing good can come from this experience. Somehow I know this. Somehow I know he has intentions that threaten everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve.
But he won’t let go. He’s like an otherworldly magnet, an opposite force drawing me closer. It’s as if he has some invisible leash around me, and he’s using it to pull me toward him. I fight the feelings and sensations rushing through me in the moments before he communicates. I want nothing to do with him, yet I want everything to do with him. I try screaming myself awake but no sound comes out.
What does he look like? Why is he here? What does he want? And most importantly, why me? Why Alix Keener?
A flaring blast of white light blinds me. I’m moving faster now, on a direct course with him. A sense of helplessness forces me to stop resisting. This is about as far from my comfort zone as I can get. I’m a puppet in this world. I have no control here. I’m forced to give in and see it through. Events in my life have made me strong and independent, so I despise playing such a passive role.
Anger. Fear. Frustration. And yes, attraction—I can’t deny that. An attraction to something or somebody I haven’t even seen, a fact that only fuels my anger.
He knows all of this. I can feel it.
Stop. There it is. A sudden stop and a clearing through the cloudy light. It’s still bright, white, and warm, but a crisp clarity surrounds me now. Silence. I’m hovering. We’re closer now. He’s right here. I can’t see him, but I feel him—stronger, more intense. It’s like I’m underwater with my eyes closed as he swims around me without physically touching me.
And that’s when the messaging begins.
A frustrating series of inaudible voices inside my head. The water analogy again—it’s like I’m trying to understand a group of people speaking to me underwater. The garbled chorus quickly narrows to one voice, still indecipherable, and I sense him struggling to adapt to our surroundings in order to communicate with me. This is new for him as well, I realize. He’s never attempted this sort of thing, and before I know what I’m doing, I find myself mentally encouraging him to message me something I can actually understand. I’ve rationalized this strange dream as a learning experience, meaning I need more details if I expect to interpret it upon awakening.
There’s not much time left. Finally, his long strings of meaningless and gurgled sounds tighten and transform into an understandable but fragmentary chain of words and phrases. What I hear sends terror snaking through me:
Face.
Suffering.
Violent.
Aruna.
Impenetrable.
Timing.
Oval City.
Help me, Alix.
Perennial is all around you.
The encounter ends with the slightest invisible touch, barely perceptible, a simple brush of what feels like a warm fingertip against the right side of my face. I should be furious with such an advance, but what actually enrages me is the fact that I’m receptive to it, closing my eyes and, deep down, not wanting it to end.
Another brilliant explosion of white light, this time followed by a deafening blast of what sounds like one of those firework test booms you hear before the real show begins.
“Stay away from me!”
I’m shouting the four words as I finally awaken sitting bolt upright in bed, body and pajamas damp with sweat, chest rising and falling rapidly as I try to catch my breath. It’s quiet and semidark in here. Why is my right hand balled into a tight fist?
I glance at the clock on the bedside table. The blue digits are blurry smudges. My glasses. I unclench my fist and reach for the same thick, black, chunky frames I’ve had since freshman year. It’s 2:30 a.m. Good. Still more than three hours of sleep before my first day as a senior.
I take a deep breath and stare across the room, lowering my gaze to an area where the wood floor meets the wall opposite me. Something isn’t right there. Small, glistening objects reflect the dull and annoying yellow light slicing in from the streetlight across from our front yard. I roll out of bed, stumble toward the door, and flick on the bedroom light, shielding my eyes from the sudden brightness.
The remains of my water glass lie in several jagged pieces along the base of the far wall. The knifelike shards look like abstract ice cubes resting in the spilled puddle of water. The booming sound just before I awoke. That must have been the glass shattering against the wall after I threw it. I’ve had my share of nightmares, but I’ve never done anything like this before.
“Good riddance, Dream Guy,” I say, shaking my head and raking a hand through my short, spiky hair as I cross the room to retrieve the broken glass. “Good riddance forever.”
But the fear returns as I remember his final two sentences:
Help me, Alix.
Perennial is all around you.
I don’t even notice t
he glass shard cut my fingertip. The sharp pain of the slice makes me wince. I instinctively draw the wounded index finger toward my glasses for a better view. The cut is harmless—just a dash of crimson spreading slowly from what amounts to nothing more than a scrape—but for some reason the blood makes me remember his touch.
I place my finger between my lips and press the tip of my tongue over the cut. The blood tastes tinny. I close my eyes and admit to myself that all the “good riddances” in the world won’t hide the fact that there’s a part of me—an unknown part I fear—that longs to have contact with Dream Guy again.
Chapter 1
Tuesday, September 4
My father is a police officer, and I’ve long been a master at reading his moods. One look at Clint Keener’s face as he steps through the door after work tells me how his day or night went. I always think about what I’m going to say before I speak to him—especially at night. Although he doesn’t drink much, he becomes silent and distant when he’s had too much alcohol. I suppose we all have demons and fight them in our own ways, but Dad loves me and wants the best for me.
Mornings are the best time to be around him, and today is no different. I’m sitting at the new, white kitchen table, studying my class schedule, finishing a banana protein shake and a fried egg topped with Trader Joe’s kimchi. Dad enters from the spacious living room full of new furniture and heads straight for the coffee beans and fancy high-end grinder he recently bought.
“Good Lord, Alix,” he says, eyeing the brownish-red kimchi and scrunching his nose as he passes. “What died on your egg?”
“Very funny,” I say. “Nothing died. It’s vegetarian kimchi. I saw it on TV and decided to try it. It’s really good. Want some?”
“If I can’t spell it, I don’t eat it, so no,” he says, scooping the dark, shiny beans into the grinder. “You definitely have your mother’s taste buds. She liked taking me to hole-in-the-wall Asian restaurants in and around Detroit when we first started dating. I finally had to break it to her that I’m a lot happier in a Burger King than I am in a Vietnamese diner.”
He looks at me and winks and smiles as the hum of the grinder fills the house. Dad rarely talks about work and never talks about his time as a Marine during the 1991 Gulf War. I respect this and never ask about either topic, knowing from my own research and from Mom that it’s often difficult for cops and combat veterans to discuss their experiences.
Still, there are things I know about his law-enforcement life, mainly through observation. For example, I know he’s been doing undercover work the past six months or so. His long hair and almost-mountain-man-like beard make that clear. Mom hated it when Dad worked undercover. She used to joke that it was in his best interest to work a regular patrol shift because she refused to kiss him until he shaved and got a decent haircut.
“Are you used to the house yet?” He empties the ground beans into a paper filter as he waits for water in the electric kettle to boil. Dad might not be a food snob, but he sure is a coffee geek, and I love smelling the different aromas from the beans that fill the house every morning.
“It’s a big house,” I say. “But yeah, I guess I’m good with it.”
“It’s big but we deserve it,” he says. “Your mother would say the same. How’d you sleep?”
“Not great. Bad dream.” I pause. “Well, bad in parts.”
He gives me a concerned look, walks over, and sits across from me. “Look, Alix. I know it’s only been a year, and I know I’ve made some bad decisions, but we needed to move away. You said so yourself. We talked long and hard about this, and you said you didn’t mind spending your senior year in a new school. I couldn’t take it in that house or that city anymore. Everywhere I looked, everywhere I went, everybody I saw—it all reminded me of her. It was torture.” He massages his temples with his fingertips. “I know people say I’m running from reality, but this seemed like the right thing to do. If you’ve changed your mind, I’m sorry. I can’t change the past, but I can give us a fresh start without forgetting about the past.”
“Dad, relax,” I say. “I’m fine. The dream wasn’t about Mom.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Right,” he says, eyes opening. “Sorry about that. I’m just trying to do the right things for you.” He exhales deeply. “For us.”
“I know,” I say. “But try not to worry about me so much.”
“Easier said than done,” he says. “Care to tell me about the dream?”
“It was nothing,” I say, pocketing my schedule and checking my phone for texts. As usual there are none. I take the last bite of my breakfast, gather my dishes, and head for the dishwasher.
Dad follows and says, “How does it feel to be a senior?”
“I’m relieved but annoyed,” I say. “I’m more comfortable around adults. You know that.” I close the dishwasher and grab my car keys from the hook in the side foyer. “I wish I could just skip the next nine months. I mean, U of M’s basically already said yes.”
“I love your confidence, Alix, but don’t get cocky.” Dad pours boiling water over the ground beans and into the pot. “All I ask is that you do what you’ve always done: stay focused and keep your nose clean. And it’s okay to have friends as long as they’re not boys.”
“God,” I say, rolling my eyes, “you’re such a cop.”
“Exactly.”
A series of three loud beeps we both know well. It’s his work phone and the most annoying ringtone ever created. I’m about to leave, but Dad raises an index finger, says, “Wait. Hang on a sec,” and takes the call.
This isn’t unusual. He answers work calls in front of me often, and if it’s private he simply goes into his office. So over the next minute, as I watch his face grow increasingly concerned, I wonder why he’s staying within earshot of me as he says things like, “Okay … I’m not sure … the last name again … I’ll be there as soon as I can,” and so on.
He ends the call and studies me, Dad thinking hard about something.
“What is it?” I say. “What’s happened?”
“You said you have some sort of advanced history class, right?”
“It’s called Independent Study in American History,” I say, nodding. “I had to take a test to get into it, remember? It counts for college credit and is one of the best classes at Beaconsfield High.”
“Who’s the teacher?”
“Why?” I say, squinting. “Does it matter?”
“Who’s the teacher, Alix?” he says, all serious and cop-like now. “And yes, it does matter.”
“It’s Mr. Watkins,” I say without having to check my schedule. “Marc Watkins. He teaches history and chemistry. I end my day with him. Sixth hour. I researched him before picking the class. He went to U of M and is an incredible teacher. His reviews online are amazing.”
Dad glances down for a moment before meeting my gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you this yet, but there’s something you need to know.” He clears his throat. “Honey, I’m afraid Mr. Watkins won’t be your teacher.”
“What?” I say, swallowing hard. “Why not? Did he do something wrong?”
“That’s a good question,” he says. “I don’t know the answer yet.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Dad mulls it over for a few seconds and says, “The problem is he’s dead, Alix. Murdered. They found his body yesterday. Multiple gunshot wounds.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” I say, covering my ears and fighting back a wave of nausea. “Jesus, Dad, why are you even telling me this? It’s the first day of school!”
Despite the initial shock, I lower my hands and try not to overreact, telling myself to breathe calmly and deeply. I pride myself on the self-discipline Mom and Dad taught me from a young age, so I tend to hate myself when I allow drama or gossip to get the best of me. Dad doesn’t like me this way either, so he doesn’t say another word until he thinks I can handle it.
“That’s better,” he finally says.
“And you asked another good question. I’m telling you because I’d rather you hear the truth from me than some rumor at school. The family’s been notified, and they’re releasing his name today. I’m sure it’ll be in the news before noon, but don’t say anything until it’s public. Got it?”
I nod.
“Are you okay?”
There’s a long silence.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “It’s just creepy. I never met the guy, but like I said, the students who posted reviews adore—adored—him.” I adjust my glasses and scratch my head. “What a freaky way to start my senior year.”
“I know,” he says. “This might sound strange, but try to have a good day, okay?” He pauses. “I love you, Alix.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I’m halfway out the side door when he says, “Hey, what happened to your finger?”
“Huh?” I turn in the open doorway. “What are you talking about?”
“The cut on your right index finger. It wasn’t there yesterday.”
“Oh that,” I say, raising the wounded digit I’d nearly forgotten about. “It’s nothing. I broke a glass in my room and nicked it. It’s like a centimeter long. How’d you even notice?”