Ever (The Ever Series Book 4)

by C. J. Valles

  Ever

  The Ever Series, Alternate Point-of-View Companion to For Ever

  Electronic edition

  Copyright © 2014 by C. J. Valles

  www.cjvalles.com

  www.facebook.com/cj.valles.3

  Follow C. J. on Twitter @CJValles_4ever

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work.

  Books and Reading Order of The Ever Series

  For Ever (The Ever Series, Book 1)

  Never (The Ever Series, Book 2)

  Sever (The Ever Series, Book 3)

  Ever (The Ever Series, Alternate Point-of-View Companion to For Ever)

  To my husband, for supporting me every step of the way.

  Table of Contents

  1: Dead Girl

  2: Eye Contact

  3: Living Statue

  4: Watching

  5: The Gathering

  6: Hurt

  7: Reap What You Sow

  8: Atonement

  9: Truth

  10: Allies and Enemies

  11: First Kiss

  12: Exile

  13: Tempting

  14: A Date to Remember

  15: Checkmate

  A feeling of sadness and longing,

  That is not akin to pain,

  And resembles sorrow only

  As the mist resembles the rain.

  - The Day Is Done, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  1: Dead Girl

  This one could be the last.

  The thought causes a startling thrill to course through me. No more waiting. The war will be that much closer to ending. I will watch the life drain out of her eyes and then never have to wonder again if this world will be taken from us.

  I incline my head toward the windows of the classroom, listening to the steady hiss of precipitation that will taper off in the coming dawn, only to return again as it always does in this corner of the northwestern United States. The sound of the rain is soothing, softening the perpetual hum of billions of minds—only one of which I am searching for.

  She is coming. I saw her. Long, straight, dark-chocolate hair, a pale complexion, and a grim, watchful expression that I have seen on weathered faces many times her age. I expect her to be young, but not too young. There is a common element to the countenances of younger humans that causes a pang somewhere deep in the recesses of my psyche. Recognizing it, I feel my lip curl in disgust. Guilt. Such a human foible.

  I have been here, hunting these creatures too long. I live in their world and look as they do. I even act as they do—when absolutely necessary. My eyes shift toward the window, and my mind travels a short distance in time. I see it perfectly: a period when every human alive now had yet to exist.

  1862

  The boy—at twelve or thirteen—had been solemn and older than his years, much the same as the quarry I now await. His delicate features and serious eyes had been framed by dark hair. That morning, I had watched as he stepped from the rudimentary living quarters on his family’s land in what used to be called Oregon Country. The father had been dead nearly six months. Perhaps that was the grief I had seen in the boy’s eyes? The mother had been nursing an infant that I imagined would not make it through the winter.

  Holding a wooden pail in his hand, the boy had paused and sniffed the air after his first step outside, as though he had known a predator was nigh. I had waited with the stillness that only one who has waited forever could achieve. In the low light, I could see everything, whilst he perceived no more than a hand’s length in front of his face as he took his unerring steps toward the small barn. I watched him with an acute awareness for how briefly these beings exist.

  A glimmer of orange light crept across the horizon. These humans had been entrenched in their own battle, killing one another, while most of them knew not why. This particular region, though, settled by trappers and traders like this family, had been mostly untouched by the war that had raged to the east. I cared not. I had other preoccupations when I rose from inertia to blot out the latest rift—this human mind that could tip the balance and spell our downfall.

  I had taken a mere step from the tree line. Then, in an instant, I had appeared in front of him. The pail had dropped to the sodden, mossy ground as his eyes took in my form in the low light: the inhumanly green eyes, the halo of blond hair glinting in the rising sun, and height uncommon to his time.

  Michael, his thoughts had echoed.

  Many during the past two human millennia had thought the same, and it was no surprise that his mind instantly traveled to his forefathers’ mythology—because this boy saw me differently than the vast majority of humans. It is why he had to die. I would have spared him if only I could have, but it would not have changed the unwavering conviction that his mind was a danger to us. I already had sensed the gathering, those on the other side grasping for a newborn vessel. Had I not acted, they would have lured him into infinite possession soon enough.

  “Have you come to take my sister?” the boy had asked quietly.

  “No, William. I’ve come for you.”

  I had seen nothing wrong in allowing him to believe his faith’s rather elaborate construct. After all, giving this creature one last moment of solace in an otherwise miserable existence—the hardship of which I could read quite clearly in his eyes—had been a mercy I could spare.

  “Allow her to grow old, then. Please. And grant me peace everlasting.”

  “I shall.”

  There had been tears in his eyes, yet he had seemed otherwise unafraid. I had known then that I should have destroyed him swiftly, but I had grown cautious, curiously afraid that I had become fallible in my judgment. After all, we had had an eternity stolen from us before we escaped. What gave me the right to steal indiscriminately such a brief existence from those humans who posed no threat at all?

  This boy, though, had been a danger. His mind would have been used against us. Therefore he had to be destroyed.

  As the grayish light infiltrates the classroom’s windows, I shift my weight and take a breath, preparing my artifice of human behavior. In the months spent waiting for this human girl, I have used the nights to acclimate myself to this time and region. Of course, since rising from inertia, I have studied the current customs and behaviors and know them well enough, having sampled the thoughts and images of countless minds. There is no substitute, however, for walking among humans of a given epoch.

  During the time waiting for this girl, I have purchased items that are plentiful to humanity—at least in this region. Foodstuffs, plastic containers of water—the substance they require for life that is second only to the air I taste now, though the air in this tiny classroom has grown acrid with the smell of old paints. My mind shifts to the growing collection of artifacts in the corner of the room: paintings, drawings, sketches. Perhaps I should destroy them before I take leave of this place, though surely no human eyes would recognize the images I have created with these rudimentary colors. How could they envisage a world they have never seen—one that they could never perceive with their eyes?

  I have frequented other human establishments, waiting for any sign that the humans I encounter would recognize my otherness. They have not. In this new time, I also have been careful to test their perception of my physical age. Night after night, I have entered bars and pubs on the dark streets of the city. The servers and bartenders, to my disappointment, have remained unflinching at my age, and I have found myself speculating whether my appearance would earn me more suspicion than I could afford while waiting for this girl to emerge. Yet as soon as I entered one of the high schools in this suburban offshoot
of Portland, Oregon, suspicion was the least of my concerns.

  The females in this age have changed. They are bolder and more brazen than I last remember. Here at least. Other corners of this world have remained untouched by time and—for better or worse—progress. Whilst I had never regarded my own image as anything to marvel at, now I only need look into the eyes of a passing female, young or old, to gauge the impact of my appearance. In the past, I had considered the thoughts of males who happened to glimpse Audra disquieting, mostly because the male animal seemed more so prone to lust than his female counterpart.

  Audra’s appearance in human form invites both lascivious male and spiteful female gazes. In the past, protectiveness—feral and vengeful—had gripped me each time before I would remember that she and my other companions are in no danger from mortal eyes. Audra could cut a swath through humanity if she truly wished it, and I have no reason to be concerned for her welfare as far as these mortals are concerned.

  Thinking of my sister, I am amused, in a dull sort of way, at modern humans’ willingness to scoff at the mythologies that preceded theirs. Little do they know that Audra was indeed the basis for Athena, though I imagine the Greeks would have been distraught to learn that their virgin patroness of Athens had a consort in the god of war himself—Ares, better known to us as our brother and compatriot Chasen. It is no surprise that he enjoys a good laugh from their history among the Greeks, but he has always been more prone to human emotions—bellicosity first and foremost.

  I ponder this concept. We have adapted to the humans’ likeness, languages, and the widening gyres of technological advancements that continue to engulf and entrance these creatures. Will losing our resolve be next? Will these emotions run rampant one day? Blind us? Paralyze us?

  I crush the thought. What could change an eternity of intransigence? Nothing. When humanity is but dust, we will be statues, immortal artifacts from our old world, one we will finally see cut off from this sphere we now inhabit among the humans. This girl’s destruction will be like a tourniquet on the endless battlefields of humanity, stopping the poisonous blood of our past inhabitance from seeping any deeper into this world.

  These humans have been locked in battles for dominance since their kind evolved, and in that way, they are not so different than we are. The only distinction is that we have sworn a pact not to become the oppressors upon our victory. I know what it is to be ruled; I could never take joy in tyranny.

  Joy. I know this word in many different languages. Have I experienced it? No. I have had flashes of other human emotions—relief, triumph, wrath, boredom. However, joy, like other emotions, remains elusive. I recognize it on the human faces I see, and in their minds, I see what conjures it. Whether it is real or imagined, I know not. These human emotions are intangible at best.

  Love. Alistair and I have had numerous exchanges on the theme of love. He said it was the greatest gift Persephone bestowed upon him; yet this emotion seems the most ethereal. I told Alistair as much, and he offered Audra and Chasen as irrefutable proof that our kind is capable of love as he claims humans are.

  I dismiss the thought. Even if it were possible, how could two such warlike creatures be inclined to such an emotion if it exists as Alistair describes? Pleasure is another matter altogether, though not one I feel harmless to indulge in. It represents distraction, which would be fatal to our universal purpose. My thoughts shift to the gleaming black automobile in the parking lot. I appreciate the beauty in its form, but it is far from a distraction. There is little in this world I would be truly loath to cast off in order to remain free from the yoke of our oppressors.

  I focus my attention on the hum of arriving students and teachers. Then, reaching out with my mind, I watch as the switch on the wall rises. After all, there is no sense in startling anyone by sitting alone in the dark. When, a moment later, the first of the young humans walks in, he regards me through the same haze of human perception I am accustomed to seeing in their minds, as though they are observing me through foggy glass.

  His interest is more acute than most of the other males in the classroom, though this is not uncommon. I have seen it many times. However, this boy has been making a concerted effort to arrive early, and I realize that I should begin to arrive later as a means of quashing his hopefulness. He believes we are two of a kind: lonely and seeking companionship. While I, too, have felt wistfulness, it has never been for the companionship he seeks. My wistfulness has been for freedom. However, now that I have my liberty, it has become a shackle, a strident reminder that if I allow myself a moment’s distraction or hesitation, I could lose it again—and see this world lost to those who enslaved me and demolished the world I existed in for their greed.

  Other students begin trickling in. The instructor, Arthur Gideon, remains in the faculty lounge trying to tame his wavering self-discipline, telling himself over and over that he does not require one last cigarette. This is yet another human weakness that has managed to baffle me.

  So hot! Wicked hot. Want him so bad! God! What the hell is his problem? Why won’t he notice me?

  My muscles stiffen imperceptibly with distaste at the internal carping of the blunt, braying harpy of a teenage girl to my right. Very rarely do these creatures manage to get under my skin, as these humans call it. I mute her mental ranting. When the instructor enters the room, reeking of one last cigarette, he casts a glance in my direction and nods with a conspiratorial smile. He thinks me an art prodigy, a youngster that he is urging on to greater things. I lift the corners of my mouth, mimicking his human gesture, which sets off another round of histrionics from the girl to my right.

  Do they not see the eons behind my eyes—the danger? Can they not sense my purpose?

  Physical beauty, I have found time and time again, hides a great deal from human scrutiny. Upon arriving here, I had to use very little persuasion with the office staff, and the woman behind the counter would have acquiesced to any demand I made of her, though I had only one: the morning art class.

  This is where I saw the girl, in this very classroom. Other humans are easy to find. These, though, are different. They require effort.

  Vessels.

  They had not always been this. There had been a time when we believed these creatures, these humans whose abilities resembled a weaker version of our own, would become our allies. Certainly Persephone has become more than an ally. I see her now as more than one of us. She has become the heart of our faction. Her humanity, which she has somehow sustained and nurtured throughout her immortal existence, reminds me that Alistair and the others have managed to attain a glimmer of peace and hope that I have all but abandoned wishing for.

  My hope now lies in the destruction of this human girl. I focus on the image of my quarry as I will another time loop into being. With all my energy, I reach out, until finally a wave hits me and I see her. It must be through the eyes of one of the other students in this school. This vision is in the school’s cafeteria—and for the first time in decades—I feel confusion. How can this be? I pull with all my will, forcing the image into greater focus. I see the weather outside the cafeteria windows. Even to seasoned eyes, this brief glimpse would mean very little, but to me, it means everything. I shall find the girl today—but not here in this classroom. The inconsistency baffles me, however, for I saw it quite clearly during the first bending of time: she was in this classroom, lifeless under my gaze.

  “Mr. Casey, seeing as no one else has any guesses …”

  My eyes briefly focus on the instructor.

  “Titian. Sixteenth century.”

  “Thank you, Ever. Your enthusiasm for art history is always appreciated.”

  My face descends into a mask again. Today. The end of forever … the end of waiting. Finally it has come.

  The insufferable buzzing that tells these children when to come and go sounds. It is a noise I have found causes either salivation at the illusion of freedom or dread for another hour of superficial learning that their peers of cent
uries past would have deemed a luxury. The passing of time means nothing to those like us who remain unmarked by it. For these humans, though, it is everything. They will live and die by it, even if they may not often contemplate it.

  And for one human here, this girl I seek, her last moments are ticking by with inevitability.

  I look at the range of emotions that play across the young humans’ faces as I traverse the halls. I recognize them—awe, hatred, jealousy, fear, embarrassment, lust. Love I have never witnessed for myself. But why would such an emotion, if it truly exists in the manner described by human poetry and literature, be reflected into my eyes as these creatures stare back at me?

  I do not regard myself with self-pity. I have had an eternity to appreciate and accept my nature. It is, in fact, how I chose my moniker for this period of human history. I shall go on forever, doomed to be ever vigilant. I frown. For some reason this makes me think of my quarry, and for a brief and irrational moment I wonder if this watchful young human senses that something is coming to snuff out her brief existence.

  Could she possibly sense her end?

  After all, her end is why I am here. She is an anomaly—human, but apart from the rest of humanity. She has no peers, which makes me wonder: if she hears the voices, does she think herself mad? Does she believe any of what she hears or sees? Over time, I have discovered a growing number of these vessels in asylums. Still, if she is here in this school, walking amongst her peers, then she must realize that her ability is not mere madness, but power.

  Another classroom. Another instructor. This particular paragon of human tutelage is more insecure and supercilious than the last. He asks me a question well beyond the scope of the lesson plan, and I could simply ignore him, but what would that grant me?

  “String theory.”

  My answer silences him before he moves on to more pedestrian matters. If I were to tell him the true implication behind string theory, which his mind barely grasps to begin with, I imagine he would deem it a fabrication. The true nature of this universe is something most humans would place firmly in the category of fiction and fancy. But that is their proclivity: to choose certain fiction and fancy over others merely due to what they are told. To be sure, some can see beyond the stricture of human perception, but those fall into a miniscule minority. The ones with the boldest ideas—those closest to the truth—have been, and will be again, scoffed at, marginalized, or persecuted.