Ever (The Ever Series Book 4)

by C. J. Valles

  Time passes, and when the fourth school period approaches, I experience another wash of shamefully human emotion. The predator inside me emerges from its dormancy, and before the bell has sounded, I am moving. I glide through the halls toward my ultimate destination, arriving before anyone else. Sitting at my empty table, I wait for the space to fill up around me, my presence concealed by the tumult and chaos of the lunch hour. The prickle of anticipation coursing through me is not entirely unusual, but it is perceptibly keener this time—the last time I will have the need to hunt a human, or at least one whose mind and body have not been claimed by the other side.

  A sudden rush washes over me, and what had remained hidden from me is uncovered. The blur of images startles me, hundreds of pairs of human eyes ticking over this girl. I concentrate, searching for her mind. Then a smile spreads across my face as I find her thoughts. I look to the right, and my eyes lock with a passing student, his own thoughts casting my image back upon me. My smile frightens him. I look like a predator. I look evil. Good. Be afraid. Run along. Which he does.

  I turn very slowly to see her with my own eyes, rather than distorted through the muddy lens of human perception.

  … my personal version of hell … indoors. No escape. Just strangers. Don’t care if I sit alone for the rest of the year …

  My chest tightens at the sight of her, and I grimace, willing myself to believe that the overwhelming sensation I feel is the monster inside me straining to break free and blot her out where she stands. Her small, fragile hands have gripped the edges of the tray so tightly that her knuckles are bone-white. She looks around, her eyes never landing upon the curious faces around her. She does not seem to notice them, believing they would never notice her. She shifts again, and I hear the faintest squish of wet fabric pressing against rubber. Her shoes are not meant for this climate. She is picturing where she came from—an opulent community nearly a thousand miles south of here. She is a new student. I frown again. A mere thousand miles away, yet invisible to me until this moment.

  I study her face: the small, heart-shaped mouth, an oval jaw, wide, olive-green eyes, and unusually pale skin tinged with pink. Her trembling, though it is imperceptible to the human eye, is evident to me, and I listen closely to find her rapid, shallow breaths and racing heartbeat. She is absolutely terrified. I feel a swell of gratification. That is why I was unable to locate her presence until she was nearly on top of me. Fear makes these creatures exceedingly difficult to track. Her eyes shift again, searching, while she remains oblivious to the swirl of fascination following her.

  I’d do ’er.

  The loutish voice that echoes in my head fills me with rage. A desire to kill, torture, and maim floods my every fiber. I turn away from my prey, and my eyes flicker to the source—an arrogant bastard of a man-child who flaunts his bravado at every turn. I had paid him no mind until today, but the image festering in his mind causes an unnatural sensation in my abdominal cavity.

  Is this what humans mean when they say they feel sick?

  The tautness in my chest is something I comprehend. After all, rage is an emotion I am familiar with. It was what kept me from going mad before we escaped into this dimension. Rage, when it has purpose and focus, is useful. However, this abrupt inability to focus on my singular task is not useful. I quell my inexplicable fury by imagining my hands snapping this boy into two pieces.

  Then I sense the girl’s movement and hear the soles of her shoes and the accompanying squish as they make contact with the linoleum. She is walking rapidly, with more certainty than she had a moment ago, having seen my otherwise vacant table. There are only seconds before she reaches me—my prey coming straight to me, as though drawn. Nearer and nearer to her end. All I need do is rise and look into her eyes once and unleash the fury spanning more than a thousand human millennia into her mind. She will be dead before she even registers my appearance.

  Suddenly she slows, having caught sight of me. She does not even begin to wonder why I might be the sole occupant of the table among a sea of tables teeming with life. Instead, she is thinking I will fail to notice her. I can smell her now—the scent something akin to cinnamon. I also taste her relief at finding solace. Then his voice jerks my attention away.

  … actually going to sit with that freak. If he thinks he’s gonna screw her first, he’s so wrong. She’ll be riding my stick by the end of the week—

  My rage is incalculable. I … want … to … destroy … him. Instead, I freeze, finally recognizing the motivation behind my impulse. The desire to annihilate this loathsome beast is nearly identical my instinct to protect the one who needs no protection: my sister and fellow warrior Audra. However, the urge to protect this fragile-looking girl is different. It is nearly irresistible.

  Indecision—another long-dormant sensation—courses through me. What if I am wrong? What if she is not the one?

  More conflicted than I have felt during my infinite existence, I rise. Then, with more speed than advisable, I flee from this small human without looking back. Yet with every step, I feel an increasing dread. I wanted her to come nearer, though not to demolish her mind. No, instead I wanted to hear her speak, and as soon as I exit the cafeteria, I stop and linger, listening to her thoughts as she begins reading a book she has produced from her bag.

  She is following the characters in the book with such clarity and empathy that her mind does not register the words. Rather, she sees the characters and scenery as though they were a motion picture. I watch, through her imagination, as they journey across a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Something in her conceptualization of this place reminds me of the dimension we escaped. But how could it be possible for this girl’s thoughts to bear such a resemblance to our world? It is not possible. I shake off my suspicions and continue watching as the scenes tumble from her mind.

  “Hi!”

  I stiffen, so absorbed in the girl’s visions that I momentarily lost sight of everything else. Ashley Stewart, a girl from the morning art class, is standing, awaiting acknowledgment from my prey, who turns slowly and assesses the girl’s wavy light brown hair, brown eyes, and nervous smile. In the dark-haired girl’s mind, I watch as the Stewart girl begins to prattle on.

  Stupid bet. I’m going to kill Josh.

  As her internal ramblings echo in my mind, I stiffen with the unassailable certainty that the girl sitting before her has read her thoughts as well with no effort. Alarm courses through me. This has never happened. How could I have let her go? I should have killed her! Then her voice cuts through my thoughts.

  “I’m Wren.”

  A voracious need grips me, and I give in to the urge to walk back through the double doors and watch her with my own eyes. Wren. Named after a small bird. Another sensation, one I can only guess is panic, descends over me. What has become of me? On the brink of a monumental step toward victory, and I have suddenly and inexplicably lost my will?

  Taking a seat in the corner, I will the children around me to ignore my presence as I desperately try to identify the source of my failing. In the meantime, Wren—the girl I came here to kill—has gathered her belongings and is following after her newfound friend. I listen to the thoughts of the waiting group as the two girls approach, unsettled by the echo in my quarry’s mind. However, she is overwhelmed and cannot seem to make much sense of the competing thoughts as her eyes shift from face to face. This offers me one bit of respite. Despite whatever quirk of evolution that has allowed her the capacity to read the minds of those around her, her ability is limited.

  By the time the two girls reach their destination, the others are staring at my prey as though she is an exotic animal they have witnessed only in a zoo. I grimace as Joshua Tarabocchia, the boy who goaded Ashley Stewart into approaching my quarry, continues staring with unabashed interest. When Wren notices him, my muscles tighten as I listen to her internal debate over his attractiveness.

  They begin asking her questions—something I could not hope to do without exposing myself—a
nd I read her thoughts, finding myself hungry for details of her existence before this moment and how she has evaded my detection. Her mind briefly travels to a small, white-stucco house with a red-tiled roof tucked into a mountainous region of Southern California not far from the Pacific Ocean. During the course of a few minutes, I watch as she grows more and more disconcerted with her moment at the center of attention. Tarabocchia appears to be salivating every time she glances in his direction, and when he catches her eye, she looks down again.

  … comfort in the anonymity of going unnoticed most of the time …

  Her thought causes my lip to curl. The entire world—two worlds in fact—are bearing down on her, and this girl thinks herself invisible? Is she as daft as the boy? When I laugh bitterly, a boy at the next table looks over at me with fright in his eyes. I glare, and he immediately looks away.

  When my attention returns to the girl, her body is frozen stiff, only her eyes flitting around. I try to read her thoughts, but it is as though she has disappeared. I search and finally lock onto a terrified fragment.

  … never, not once, been able to pick up anything from someone without direct eye contact …

  There is only one explanation: she heard me. But how? How could this fragile creature pick up an errant thought from my mind, which is impenetrable? I watch as she continues to search the faces around her for any sign that it was one of their voices that she heard. After several moments, her small hands begin to pick apart the paper napkin in front of her with nervous energy. Then, finally, her breathing begins to slow. Good. She thinks it was her imagination.

  I get up slowly and walk into the empty hallway. With no one to see me, I shift my physical location to the vehicle in the parking lot. I might have walked—at a human pace—out of the school buildings and to the parking lot, but with no witnesses to see me “vanish,” I have never seen a reason to imitate humans’ slow movements. When the bell rings, my attention becomes riveted on the girl.

  “No problem. Didn’t want you turning into Ever.”

  Through my prey’s thoughts, I see Ashley Stewart smiling slyly. Then I shift vantage points and watch as my would-be victim cocks her head, clearly baffled by her new friend’s statement. Now this girl knows the name of her executioner, even if she does not recognize her fate.

  I follow her thoughts as she walks to her next class, and I am oddly frustrated to see her take a seat next to Joshua Tarabocchia, her harmless admirer from lunch. Fortunately, her thoughts have calmed, and she is no longer afraid of the disembodied laughter. For the rest of the day, I continue to watch her movements, having convinced myself that I can and will destroy her.

  Several minutes after the final bell, I see her hurry from the main entrance of the school. Very slowly, I step out of the car, shut the door, and lean against the side. My entire being is alert to her presence, and I am certain I will not lose her now. She looks around, frantically searching for the bus, and narrowly misses my gaze. Then a woman at the curb begins waving wildly at her, and a simultaneous rush of relief and embarrassment floods the girl as she guesses what the woman is about to do. She is correct: the woman was on the cusp of placing her fingers in her mouth and whistling loudly.

  There is no mistaking the woman. Their coloring is different, but their face shapes are unmistakable. The girl hurries toward her mother, her mind briefly conjures a handsome, dark-haired man: her father. The girl’s thoughts about the father are ambivalent, truculent even, and it is clear she is a child of divorce.

  Reaching her mother’s car, Wren turns and sees that obnoxious boy Josh waving from the other end of the parking lot. She lifts her hand and smiles with self-conscious unease, and for a moment, I debate demolishing a bit of his bumper before departing the parking lot. The mother follows her daughter’s gaze with a hopeful expression, appearing more excited about her offspring’s first day at a new school than Wren does. As they sit down in the car, the mother requests a summation of the day. Wren responds by raising her hands to her throat, her eyes wide.

  “Like Lord of the Flies …”

  Smiling at her allusion, I slide into the driver’s seat and feel the vehicle come to life under my touch. I pull out of the parking space, paying no mind to a group staring with covetous eyes. As I follow the copper car at a discreet distance, I track with unusual interest the conversation going on inside it. Though I rarely have occasion to think of these creatures by their given names, I find this girl’s pulsing in my mind over and over.

  Wren.

  Her mother asks about the eager admirer from the parking lot, and my teeth clench together until I see with certainty through Wren’s thoughts that he is of no interest to her. When her mother mentions a surprise, her countenance wilts. Then, with a quick look into her mother’s eyes, Wren retrieves an image of paint cans. Suddenly my muscles tense.

  You should have killed her. That is what the others will say. They will arrive here and wonder what has become of me. Audra will never believe my betrayal. Chasen will want to dispatch the girl immediately. Or … something else will take advantage of my error and take possession of her.

  No. No one will touch her. But the conviction of this thought shakes me to my core. Why? Why do I care what happens to her?

  I follow them into a shopping center parking lot, where they begin walking toward a grocery store, the girl clutching her sweater to her small frame. I take in the surroundings. Fast food restaurants, a dry cleaning shop, a liquor store. The last time I walked this piece of earth, the world population had been less than a quarter of what it is today, and this very spot had been little more than evergreens and swampland. I park at the end of the lot and shadow their movements, watching the two as they laugh and joke. This girl—Wren—who had seemed so timid only hours ago, is much more at ease now that she is in the company of her mother.

  I walk the aisles, watching as she kneels down and reads the ingredients on a container. My chest aches as I realize how easy it would be to appear before her and end it all now. Instead, I study her face as her nose wrinkles in distaste and she mouths MSG? When I follow them outside into the drizzling rain a few minutes later, Wren is carrying a single shopping bag with the night’s meal.

  The drive to their house is quick, only a minute or two deeper into the suburban maze of houses, and I park at the end of the block, out of sight. As Wren steps from the vehicle, she pauses, contemplating the abruptness of nightfall, and how the sun’s trajectory toward the horizon is hidden by the grayness.

  When they reach the front door, I watch with some amusement as these two tiny humans throw themselves against the wood until the door bursts open. Wren’s nose crinkles again, and I sit and watch as her mother anxiously leads her through the house to a newly painted room. Lavender. Wren goes over to the bed and picks up a pair of weatherproof boots before grasping her mother in a fierce hug.

  With an unfamiliar, crushing intensity, I want to be the recipient of this girl’s blinding and fierce devotion. Her mother pats her on the head and retreats. Then, still standing in the middle of the room, Wren listens as music begins drifting up the staircase. The rain picks up outside, but she remains where she is, listening. When she begins to cry, the tears streaking silently down her cheeks, I long to see her face. More than anything I have wanted in my existence.

  ***

  It has been several hours since I sat watching a young girl whom I was prepared to kill. Now, nearly three thousand miles from that quiet suburban street on the periphery of Portland, Oregon, I still feel her presence pulsing through every ounce of my being. The music is mercifully loud, the speakers bleating out a deafening electronic rhythm, but the noise does not dull the sound of her quiet breaths echoing in my mind as much as I need it to.

  A drunken man attempting to force his way to the bar bumps my shoulder, his fetid breath lingering in my nostrils. I turn my head and look directly into his eyes, which widen in fear. He slinks away, his next drink hastily forgotten, and I turn back to the mirror and study m
y reflection. I am a killer. There is no hiding it. Not on this night. The unnatural greenness of my eyes glows with the fire of destruction and ruin.

  If I return and kill her now, it will be over. However, this thought alone causes a sharp sensation to rise in my chest. Pain. Physical pain I have not felt since stepping into this plane of existence. I turn away from the bar toward the swelling crowd of bodies moving with the music. Letting my gaze wander, I wait for the scene before me to elicit some sort of emotion—desire, excitement, lust. Any emotion at all. It does not.

  “Looking for someone?” a sultry female voice whispers in my ear.

  I turn and study the young woman to my left. She is unnaturally blonde, tall and appearing even taller by virtue of the pair of vertiginous high-heeled shoes she is wearing. Her clothing is sequined and barely covers her skin, which has been painted a ghastly orange. The makeup on her face is surely intended to highlight her features, but my eyes see straight through the façade. It is as though she is attempting to mimic the appearance of my sister, but she cannot. Audra is immortal and incomparable. As the young woman leans closer, her perfume becomes cloying.

  “Come with me,” she whispers.

  When she grasps my hand and does not notice the abnormal heat emanating from my skin, I rise wordlessly and follow her through the throng of bodies. At the door to the alleyway, she pauses, turning to wink at me before stepping outside. It is a cold night in New York City, and the passageway is empty as I allow the young woman to shove me against the brick wall and into the shadows. She presses her painted lips to mine, but I taste no desire—only the chemical components of her lipstick. Her hands grip my chest, and I wait for urgency or pleasure to take hold of me. After all, when my quarry is dead in a few hours time, and our battle for this world is all but over, this is how I could spend the rest of eternity. My jaw clenches as the thought causes emptiness to fill me.