Prophecy Awakened

by Tamar Sloan

  Because it’s over.

  Although Caesar has been here before, this time is different. The tears come and come and come, as if they are surging up from a deep, bottomless ocean. And I’m drowning in their salted sorrow. Drowning, sinking, suffocating…

  I don’t know how much time has passed when my door opens. “I said, it’s time to head to dinner.”

  My mother takes in my fetal form and the shuddering shoulders. “Oh, it’s happened.”

  She comes into the room, and sits on the end of my bed. I stay, wrapped in misery, my face buried in Caesar.

  Her voice, softer than I have ever heard it, flutters between us. “I know it hurts. But sooner is better than later.”

  Cold comfort. But I don’t mind that she’s here. Hers is the one comfort that I can handle right now.

  She sighs, patting the comforter by my feet. “You’ll need some time. I’ll phone the school, say you won’t be in tomorrow.” Present, but not touching.

  “Good boy, Caesar.” And she leaves, closing the door behind her.

  Short lived.

  Darkness envelops me, but gives me no peace. I curl farther into my bed, but I can’t get warm. Bitter, brittle words repeat in my head. Counting the passage of time.

  It’s over. It’s over.

  It’s. Over.

  Each painful shard accumulates in my body. I worry if I move I’ll shatter.

  So I don’t move, possibly for hours. Maybe days.

  Caesar’s whining seeps through the wall of pain. Puffy raw eyes open to look into pleading brown eyes. He paws at the comforter. “I’m sorry, boy. I haven’t taken you out.”

  Achy legs hit the floor; aged arms push myself up. I drag myself across the lounge room. I open the back door, and Caesar rushes out the minute it’s wide enough to fit through.

  For the few minutes it takes Caesar to disappear into the darkness, I don’t feel the cold. The numbing, frigid weight within me is far more arctic. I stand frozen in the doorway, staring into the darkness.

  Caesar comes up to me, whining. “I know. We need to go inside.”

  I close the door on the ghostly night, and head back through the lounge room. There I see what I missed on my way through.

  My mother is curled on the lounge. The one where Noah and I sat. Her head rests on the arm, asleep. A bottle of wine stands on the coffee table, an empty glass beside it. I frown. She finished the bottle?

  I walk over, and notice her tablet on her lap. My mother’s face is completely relaxed, mouth parted. The dark scent of fermented grapes stings my nose. I pick up the tablet, intending on placing it on the coffee table when my thumb accidentally brushes the screen.

  A document brightens the screen, and I scan it, wondering if it’s an annual report or the latest marketing trends.

  His hand curved around the nape of her neck, his eyes dark and hot.

  “Always and forever, baby.”

  What the—?

  My mother is reading a book. Not a cold, calculating business document, but a piece of fiction. Romantic fiction.

  I tap on the screen and rows of covers assemble in a two-dimensional grid. All dominated by feminine hands caressing rippling tattoos, flowing hair framing sultry eyes, parted mouths touching ridged chests. I scroll through flowing titles including words like destiny and always and yours.

  Shock has me sitting on the coffee table, head alternating between the unbelievable tablet and my mother’s sleeping form. Every one of these books is known for one thing.

  Happily ever after.

  Why would she read these?

  I don’t have the energy to untangle the mystery, so I sit the tablet beside me, cover open, like it’s just been placed there. I grab the throw that lies diagonally and artfully along the lounge and carefully tuck it around her. I tiptoe, Caesar at my side, back to my room.

  As my door shuts, it hits me again.

  It’s over.

  I double over, the next torrent running down my cheeks. Will they ever end?

  I climb back into bed to find my pillow saturated and cold. I drop it onto the floor, pulling the spare over. Gritty eyes close, and tears fall to wet the next one.

  I lie there, bleak and sobbing, hoping sleep will claim me.

  22

  Noah

  I pull into the school parking lot. Once again, Eden’s car is nowhere to be seen.

  “She’ll be back,” Mitch says besides me.

  I sigh. Her backpack, her books within, rests on the back seat.

  “Like Tara?”

  Mitch pushes his palms into his eyes. “Like Tara.”

  We head into the building. Despite our looks being as similar as any two siblings, we wear matching twin masks. Chatting to friends, smiling, and high fiving. Like we are happy, average teenagers.

  I’m at my locker when Bianca comes up. She flashes a smile, brushing her hair forward to rest on her shoulder.

  “Hi, Noah.”

  I pretend to be looking for something in the depths of my locker. “Hey, Bianca.”

  She asks the question no one else has asked. “No Eden?”

  “No Eden.” It feels like my chest has just collapsed.

  Her hand comes to rest on my arm; it feels cold. “That’s too bad.”

  I look down at it. Bianca’s smile falters, and her hand slips away. Down my arm. “I’ve got to get to class.”

  “We’re heading in the same direction. I’ll come with you.”

  “Oh.” My heavy head struggles to deal with this obstacle, like a drunk guy trying to do hurdles. “I have to see Mitch about something first.”

  Bianca flashes another bright smile. “Okay. We should catch up sometime.”

  The ludicrousness of that suggestion almost makes me smile. I’m far from interested. Or apparently single. But I don’t. Because the next thing I’d do is punch my locker door. So I mumble something about focusing on exams, and head down the hall.

  The day passes as it did yesterday. Classes, recess, classes, lunch. No Eden. No Tara.

  Although Tara is actually at school. She just spends all her time somewhere else, probably the art room. I’m almost glad. It would be too hard to disguise the pain; the mask would shatter. Besides, what do you say to the girl who is so many things? Your childhood friend. Your twin’s love. Apparently your future bond mate.

  Biology—last period. The class I enjoyed the most has become the one I dread the most. I’m back at my previous bench, the back bench empty. I’m once again met with Jordan’s raised eyebrows, and Darlene’s frown. Luckily neither asks the question, because I don’t have any answers.

  I enter the classroom, walking down the aisle between the rows of benches. And stop.

  Eden is sitting at her back bench. But this time in the aisle seat, her books on the bench beside the window, very clearly marking it as not available. My eyes devour her—her head down in her text, mahogany hair falling over her cheeks. Those amazing green eyes tucked from sight. There’s a tenseness to her curled shoulders that tells me she knows I’m here. Telling me that despite the time apart, the insurmountable obstacles, the connection hasn’t faltered.

  That kinda sucks.

  “Hey, Noah.”

  Jordan has his fist up for our standard greeting. I thump the curled hand, sliding into my seat. It takes a herculean effort to keep up the mask, to not storm down that aisle.

  And do what? Nothing has changed.

  “Hey, Jordz. What’s up?”

  “Global temperatures,” he quips.

  Darlene rolls her eyes. “You’re a comedian, Jordan.”

  Jordan shrugs. “It seemed fitting. Biology and all.”

  Mr. Dougherty stands, slowly straightening; I can see his mind consciously clicking each vertebra into place.

  Just as Dale saunters into the room.

  “Mr. D.” He salutes old Dougherty as he strolls to the seat beside me.

  “Mr. Gordon.” Dougherty’s eyes track the progress of the faded black. He stares
at the beanie, and Dale pulls it off. He knows which battles are worth engaging in.

  “Exam season is fast approaching. Tests that can decide the direction of the next few years of your life.”

  No pressure.

  “It is for this reason that we will prepare for them. And prepare for them well. Please open your textbooks to chapter three.”

  Right back to the basics.

  Mr. Dougherty starts reading and quizzing. But how do you concentrate when the one person you hurt the most is sitting just a few rows behind you?

  “Mr. Gordon. Can you tell me what factors determine the abundance of a species?”

  “Good question, Mr. D.” Dale twirls his pen in his hand. “I’m guessing it depends on what’s around. Is there somewhere to hang? Is there anywhere to chow down?” Dale waggles his brows. “Are there any babes?”

  Dougherty cocks a grey brow. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.” He heads to the back of the room; I doubt he’ll be coming up the front for a while.

  “Ms. St. James. How would you sample a species abundance?”

  Eden’s voice carries across the room, spearing into my heart. I turn. “Total counts, sample counts, indirect counts, or mark and recapture.”

  Her eyes don’t waver from Dougherty. “Exactly, Ms. St. James.”

  Then return to her book.

  Dougherty’s voice rambling through the text fades into the background. Eden’s bent head is all that I see.

  “You should talk to her, dude.”

  Dale’s beanie is back on his head, low over smiling eyes. And say what? “It’s not that simple.”

  “It’s gotta be a start.”

  I look back. At the head pointedly ignoring me. Would it?

  The rest of the class passes with me trying to answer that question. And coming up with zilch.

  The bell goes and the room begins to empty. I remain where I am. As does Eden.

  She’s waiting for everyone to leave. Including me.

  But my butt stays in my seat.

  Dougherty looks at me, and back at Eden, wise grey eyes assessing the tension in the room. Then he stands, collects his books, and leaves. It’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him move.

  I walk down, passing each bench. Shoes crossing the lino floor.

  And stop before her bench. Our bench.

  “Eden.” Her downcast eyes close for a brief second. Before continuing to stare at her book.

  Time stretches between us. I don’t think either of us knows what we are waiting for.

  “I was just leaving.”

  But I don’t want her to. “I have your bag in my car.”

  Her lip slips beneath her teeth, considering. I know she needs those books. “Okay.”

  She stands, and waits. I step to the side, knowing she’ll have to go past me.

  Eden pauses. Then braces her shoulders, tucking her head in, like she’s about to run a gauntlet. She rushes past, and the wildflower scent that never quite left my lungs, infiltrates again. My chest expands as I suck it in, recharging. My mark heating.

  She doesn’t look back as she heads out of the lab. I follow her tense back, looking at the dark hair in its knot between taut shoulder blades. So many things I never got to find out.

  I feel the distance between us in the walk to the car. Side by side, but not touching. I shove my hands in my pockets. They have a will of their own around this girl. And I instinctively know touching Eden will cause her more pain.

  At my car I reach in and grab her bag, holding it out. Eyes locked on the bag, her hand extends and grabs it, her fingers never coming anywhere near mine. She brings it to her chest, and begins to turn away.

  “Eden.” She stills, arms wrapped around her bag.

  “I never knew…” I try again. “It seemed so…” My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes finally come up to meet mine. Their green depths are shadowed, haunted, ghostly. Tinted with pain. “I know.”

  And she turns, gets in her car, and leaves.

  I lean against the truck, shoulders curling around my chest. I may as well have booked myself into a medieval torture chamber. It would have been less painful.

  Mitch throws his bag on the back seat. “It went that well, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  We climb in, and Mitch drives us home. In silence.

  Once inside I head to the kitchen. My mom is stirring a stew over the stove. The whole room smells of oven cleaner.

  “Keep it down, guys. Your father just got home from a long shift.”

  I open the fridge, only to have the cheesecake’s round face look up at me, still whole. I’m not sure what it represents, but no one has touched it. I grab a juice and head upstairs. Mitch is already in his room, door shut; I’d say headphones are pumping screeching bass through his eardrums.

  I pick up my guitar, plucking a few random chords. A tune begins to form. Her Diamonds. A fitting choice. I hear Rob Thomas’s rich voice match my slow strumming.

  Every line pierces me. The lyrics going straight to the core.

  Because there is something harder than living with your own pain.

  And that’s seeing hers.

  Darkness is falling when the downstairs phone rings.

  Mom rushes to answer it before it wakes Dad. “Hello? Oh, hi, Riley.” There’s a pause as she listens. “It can’t wait?” Her sigh brushes over the receiver. “Okay, I’ll get him.”

  Heavy footsteps shuffle to the phone. “Ah-ha, I see. I’ll be there shortly.” I don’t need Were senses to hear the weariness in Dad’s tone.

  What would have him out of bed already?

  “Noah. Front and center.”

  I head down the stairs, curious. “Yeah?”

  Dad is pulling on a shirt, getting his keys. “Alpha duty.”

  “I’m coming?” Dad has never taken me. I was supposed to after I turned sixteen. But then…

  “Yep. Down to Riley’s. Let’s go.”

  Mitch is standing on the stairs, also curious about the change in routine. At the door Dad turns back to him. “We’ll be back shortly. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Dad is yawning and rubbing his eyes as we drive into town. I’d been awake when the phone rang before the sun was up and heard Dad tell Stash to shush as he barked excitedly. Callouts are fun for him. For my father they are a duty and a responsibility. Undertaken with pride and integrity. And a woofing sidekick.

  The Alpha callouts he has done on his own.

  Until now.

  “What’s up at Riley’s?”

  “A couple of guys getting a little testy.”

  “Phelans?”

  “One of them is.”

  Meaning the other is a Channon.

  Streetlights illuminate the way through town. Riley’s is on the outskirts at the west end, strategically placed to service the residents of Jacksonville, and the visitors from nearby Wilmot. We drive through the suburbs, avoiding the tourist-lit main drag. Quiet houses watch us from residential streets. Normal people inside, living normal lives. As we hit the edge of town, the houses become browner, the gardens barer. And Riley’s comes into view.

  Sitting in the middle of an asphalt parking lot, the constant pine trees not far behind, is your standard-looking bar. Awnings over large square windows, potted plants functioning as glorified ashtrays, a neon Riley’s flashing across the top. Although not even Riley himself knows that it’s a frequent for Weres.

  Dad heads inside, only to come out a few moments later.

  “Riley said they decided to take it outside.”

  We head around the corner of the building, where two guys are circling, angry scowls matching their barely human growling, not far from the trees. The blond guy I recognize as Jared, a Phelan relative. His opponent is a brown-haired guy. A Channon.

  From what I can see, all that’s been thrown so far are words. But hands are fisted, muscles coiled. The smell of alcohol hits my nostrils, and another unique fragrance. One that can’t be smelled by a human—th
e shimmery scent that happens just before or after a change, slightly metallic, a little mystic, with a slight taint of canine.

  “That’s enough!” My father’s voice cracks like thunder, jolting both men.

  Jared stops, his hands instantly unclenching. Both men turn, each noticeably swaying on their feet.

  “You will conduct yourself as the law commands.” Everyone there knows he’s not speaking of human law.

  “I don’t have to obey you.” Channon has crossed his arms.

  My father’s voice drops to carry on the breeze, for Were ears only. It whips through the parking lot like a tempest. “You will answer to your Alpha if you violate one of the Precepts.”

  The Channon guy’s arms loosen, then drop.

  The two Werewolves look at each other. Each waiting for the other to make the first move. Neither willing to make the step toward a truce.

  “Now.”

  The single word spurs two sets of feet into motion. They each take a step back, then away. They split as they walk around us, and I feel like I’m standing between a Montague and a Capulet. Who said Shakespeare wasn’t relevant today? They walk toward the building, keeping the other in their sight.

  Dad crosses his arms, biceps resting on his broad chest. “Neither of you will be driving.”

  Jared hangs his head, while the Channon stiffens, turning his away. They each pull out their cells, speaking rapidly and quietly. Dad never moves from his position, legs apart, arms crossed. I stand beside him, hands by my side, a little awestruck, a lot impressed. Dad wields the steel of authority with composure, calm, and self-possession, tempered by respect expected, respect given.

  This is what I haven’t been learning for the past two years.

  When Jared’s ride arrives he walks over to Dad. “Thanks, Adam. You came at the right time.” He rubs his hand over the back of his head, a head that is hanging between his shoulders.

  Dad nods, but otherwise doesn’t move, chin tucked in, brow low. Jared waits, but when Dad doesn’t move, heads toward the red hatchback waiting in front of the pub. Jared was at the Phelan barbeque. He joined my parents at their table, chatting for a good while. But with a Channon nearby, my dad can’t be seen to have favorites.