Ever (The Ever Series Book 4)

by C. J. Valles

  Man, this girl really does not want to go to the dance, the boy thinks.

  When he refrains from mentioning their interaction—more to preserve his ego than any altruistic motive—Wren smiles.

  Thank you, Josh!

  When she thinks about hugging him, for a few fleeting seconds in time, I, again, find myself jealous of this silly, fickle boy before the bell sounds, reminding them to attend their afternoon classes. I follow behind as Wren walks with Tarabocchia toward her English class. It is easy enough to avoid their attention, and I am pleased to note that his thoughts about Wren are less obsessive than they were before.

  “Hey, Josh.” Wren pauses and looks around as though she can sense my nearness. “Do you know anything real about Ever Casey? Like where he transferred from or who his family is? Does anybody know why he’s here?”

  Her question takes me by surprise, something I find increasingly unsettling, having been privy to human thoughts before human languages evolved. Words too often are used to hide or mask human emotion. Now, though, it would be clear to any human watching this pair that Tarabocchia is irate.

  “The guy’s a complete zombie, and you’re all totally obsessed,” he says bitterly. “What’s with that? I just don’t get girls.”

  When he throws up his hands in frustration, for a moment I almost feel I share an understanding with this boy. As long as I have watched human behavior, I still do not entirely comprehend it. Human interaction rarely is based upon logic, and is more often dictated by emotions and urges that lie outside logic or reason. Wren Sullivan, though, has such nonlinear thought patterns comparatively to her peers that I find having limited access to her mind is torturous at best and dangerous at its worst.

  “It’s not that.” She exhales and looks around again “I mean, he kind of—”

  “Freaks you out?” Tarabocchia finishes.

  She shrugs and looks down as they reach their English classroom. When he reaches over and lightly smacks her on the shoulder, I bristle, though there was clearly no intent to harm her. Seeing the next image that appears in his mind, I debate wiping his memory, but the risk is too great with Wren standing next to him. Surely she would notice—and recognize the source of his memory lapse.

  “Jeez, Wren. Don’t sound so guilty. The guy brings it on himself. It’s too bad you missed his friends. It was freaks-ville around here for a while.”

  She looks up at him, her eyes widening.

  “Friends?”

  Ever Casey had friends? she thinks in shock.

  “They were exchange students or something. They were here last semester for a millisecond before they went back to somewhere in Europe, or wherever they were from. And get this …” The boy rolls his eyes. “They didn’t talk, either. The three of them all sitting around like zombies.”

  Too good for all us mortals, he thinks.

  Wren searches his thoughts, causing her mental wall to drop. In that moment, she sees me sitting in Springview High School’s cafeteria with Audra and Chasen. Like mine, their images in his mind are indistinct at best. As Tarabocchia walks into class, Wren remains where she is, puzzling over the image she retrieved from his mind. Watching her from down the hall, I carefully pull the image away from her as she stands in the classroom doorway.

  “Wren, will you be joining us this afternoon?”

  Wren’s eyes snap to her teacher, and she sees Tarabocchia already seated.

  How long was I staring off into nothing?

  “Sorry,” she says, blushing.

  As I shift to the parking lot, Tarabocchia’s revelation reminds me of two painfully clear facts that I have been ignoring. The first being that, while malleable, human memory is not so easily expunged. The second is that Audra and Chasen will be here soon, and their first order of business will be to destroy Wren Sullivan.

  My preoccupation with Ever Casey is turning seriously deranged, bordering on unhealthy. Does that make me Captain Ahab and Ever Casey my white whale?

  I smile as Wren looks down at the cover of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick and sighs.

  That’s just great. I lasted barely a day and a half without obsessing about the guy who can most likely hear my thoughts.

  I find it amusing that she is so displeased. Her inability to stop thinking of me sends a thrill through me, and I wish I could simply tell her that I mean her no harm. Doing such a thing would give her more reason to fear me. Logic dictates that I leave her alone and refrain from interfering in her life. Our unspoken fixation upon the other can only lead to destruction—is there any other possibility?

  Alistair and Persephone.

  Frowning at the unbidden thought, I turn on music—songs from Wren Sullivan’s collection that I have found in her computer files. I can find no logic behind her musical tastes, save for an undercurrent of melancholy that infuses either the lyrics or the music itself. Where did it come from—this innate seriousness?

  At the close of the school day, I watch as she boards the bus. Following her home, I wait until she steps inside her house before leaving the car a block away. When she rushes to her room, I shift to the living room and watch through her thoughts as she sits in front of the computer. Then I hear her gasp.

  My future car!

  She jumps up from her chair and begins to dance around before opening the e-mail.

  That’s it? A survey?

  With a heavy sigh, I hear her drop to the bed.

  “Hey, Mom. How’s work? Yeah, I’m fine. You’ll never believe what I’m doing tomorrow. … Dress shopping.

  Pausing, she laughs hysterically.

  “Dress shopping,” she repeats. “For a dance. Mom … ? My friends are going, and I thought I’d hang out and watch them try stuff on.”

  Oh god. Am I really this pathetic? she thinks despairingly.

  “That would be a no,” Wren says in response to her mother’s questioning about the dance.

  Redirecting my attention to her mother’s thoughts, I see an image of Wren, much younger than she is now. In the vision, she is crying inconsolably, and Caroline Sullivan is irate. I shift to the older woman’s office and watch as she crumples a piece of paper and throws it at the wall.

  “I swear,” she says, trying to keep the anger from her voice. “I’m going to hunt down Jimmy Spangle one of these days. Wren, honey, you’re not as bad as you think. You should just go and have fun with your friends. Who cares how well you dance!”

  I shift back to the living room of their house as Wren ends the call. Her sigh is audible—I imagine even to human ears—from the downstairs of her house. Then she begins laughing.

  I do worry about Jimmy Spangle’s health if my mom ever runs into him in a dark alley.

  I close my eyes and search the endless sea of human thoughts floating through my mind. Jimmy Spangle. The boy attended the same grade school as Wren. His older sister came to fame as a teen-aged model, and his parents are divorced, both of them living off of the daughter’s lucrative career. His mother is alcoholic, and Spangle already has been sent to a continuation school for poor grades and a violent temper.

  I wish I could tell this girl that those who inflict pain often do so because they themselves are in pain.

  Rising from her bed, Wren walks over to her desk and turns on a song with a faster tempo than her usual selections. Through her eyes, I see the room spinning in circles as she begins dancing frenetically around her room, screaming out lyrics to the song playing. Even this song, with its upbeat tune, is not a happy ballad. Its lyrics speak of heartbreak—lyrics that were penned by a lead singer who later died by his own hand. When the song ends, she walks to her desk and sits down, her thoughts suddenly invisible to me once more.

  Yes, there is darkness in her, and perhaps that is what draws me to her. Perhaps it is the chaos of her mind that allows both light and dark to coexist.

  The following afternoon is a test of my patience, which prior to looking upon Wren Sullivan, I had believed to be infinite. Suddenly I find watching four te
en-aged girls in a vehicle is harrowing to behold, particularly when one of them happens to be the key to the portal that will herald either doom or victory for this dimension.

  Not to mention my inexplicable affinity for this girl.

  The girl with the pinkish-red dyed hair is akin to a natural disaster in this realm—wild, unpredictable, and destructive. As soon as she joins the others in Ashley Stewart’s vehicle, she increases the volume of the music to a level that makes functional human thought nearly impossible.

  Oh my god, Lindsay! We’re all going to suffer permanent hearing damage—or crash! Wren thinks as the noisy girl in the front passenger seat bounces and shrieks the lyrics to the song on the radio.

  Following the vehicle onto the freeway, I watch as Ashley Stewart cuts across three lanes of traffic with nary a glance over her shoulder. During the ensuing drive, the glut of cars slows their progress; yet I still wonder if I will be compelled to extract Wren prior to a vehicular catastrophe. I comfort myself with the fact that I have witnessed no time loop indicating she will be in mortal danger this night.

  When their vehicle finally turns into the parking structure, I pull into a space in the outdoor lot and wait in the car for them to exit. A few moments later, they appear at the exit with Wren following behind her companions, who are prattling eagerly about their shopping venture. Falling farther back as they enter the store, Wren walks into the store and gingerly lifts a price tag on one of the dresses.

  Dances only look fun in the movies, she tells herself.

  I walk past the shop and continue on until I reach a coffee shop at the corner of the open-air mall. Despite living mostly on the periphery of human society, I recognize the inappropriateness of following four teen-age girls—physically or mentally—into the dressing room of a clothing store. Fortunately for me, Wren never enters the dressing room, preferring to stay outside and watch as her companions come and go in a variety of formalwear.

  Taking a seat at a group of empty outdoor tables, I watch passersby with little interest as I pay attention to Wren’s inhalations and exhalations, paying attention to any passing thought that might assure me she has not been taken. It has been nearly an hour into their excursion when Wren’s heart rate increases and I hear her making excuses to leave her friends’ company.

  Need a break from satin and taffeta …

  “Hey, I’m going to run over to get something to drink. I’ll meet up with you in like fifteen minutes?” she tells her friend Ashley.

  She exhales as soon as she steps from the store. Envisioning the coffee shop I am sitting outside of, she turns in the wrong direction and takes the long way around as she pictures log cabins and unbroken forests of evergreens as she passes by expensive clothing stores. My eyes flicker to the left as an impeccably dressed woman pauses, assessing my value, before walking into the coffee shop.

  Young, but hot and rich, she thinks.

  My clothing, while not ostentatious by any means, broadcasts wealth, simply because we can afford to clothe ourselves in garments not produced by slave labor in impoverished countries. Having been a slave to the garish and greedy, I will not support slavery in this world, no matter how it is labeled.

  A moment later, Wren walks around the corner and sees the coffee shop. I debate leaving and watching her from afar, but I have run from this girl too many times—either to protect her or out of fear of my feelings for her. For better or worse, I make my decision and wait until her eyes light upon me.

  The only person crazy enough to be sitting outside. It’s got to be my imagination … but it’s not. It’s Ever Casey, looking perfect. And crazy.

  She stops as the woman from a few moments ago steps from the shop. Juggling her coffee and other belongings, she stops in front of me to reach into her purse. She takes out a pack of cigarettes and leans toward me.

  “Do you have a light?”

  As I look up at her, I am very aware that Wren is watching our exchange with intense curiosity. When I shake my head and remain silent, she reaches into her bag for the lighter that was sitting beside the pack of cigarettes.

  Asshole, she thinks as she walks away, her high-heeled shoes clicking on the concrete walkway.

  Wren, who has been standing stock still where she lurched to a stop moments ago, stifles a laugh.

  At least he’s not a smoker. … Hey, wait. What do I care? she thinks, shaking her head.

  Instead of looking in her direction, I wait curiously as her mood changes from amusement to anger in a single second. She starts walking again, gaining momentum as she approaches me. By the time she stops in front of me, her breathing is quick and choppy, her thoughts chaotic.

  “What? What do you want from me?” she demands.

  When I look into her eyes, I maintain an expression of mild surprise, bordering on apathy as she stares down at me.

  “I’m sorry?” I ask with exaggerated politeness.

  “This crazy person routine doesn’t scare me,” she says, trying to feign fearlessness. “And you can stop trying to scare me.”

  I resist smiling.

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  Her anger boils over.

  “Look. I don’t know what your deal is, but I don’t even want to know what it was that I saw in your head—”

  With that, she presses her lips together and stalks past me into the coffee shop. I wait a moment before rising and following her. I watch as she shivers and rubs her hands together as she steps into line. When she reaches the counter and orders a hot beverage, I approach. While she is busy retrieving her wallet, I place a bill on the counter. Finally she looks up at the woman behind the counter and notices the woman staring at me. Wren’s muscles stiffen as she turns and sees me standing mere inches from her right side.

  When she finally turns her entire body to face me, I extend my hand toward to the group of tables on the other side of the room. She pauses, still standing at the head of the line until the man behind her clears his throat. With a small sigh, she begins walking toward the vacant table in the far corner. When I pull out a chair for her, she looks up at me in awe.

  What? He’s suddenly the epitome of politeness now?

  She looks across the shop at the woman behind the counter, who is staring in our direction.

  Yeah, I get it. Could we be any more mismatched?

  I frown at her thought as she turns back and looks up at me.

  For several seconds, she stares at a drop of water on my cheek. The heat of my skin soon will dry every ounce of moisture, and I can only hope that she will not notice. Finally, she clenches her hands into fists and takes a seat.

  “Why are you following me?” she demands quietly, her eyes flitting around.

  “A coincidence?” I smile. “Perhaps that would make more sense than me following you.”

  She winces like I physically struck her, and I wonder how much longer I can maintain this pretense.

  Like I’m not worth the time. I’m just some girl who’s gotten into her head that her school’s resident idol is stalking her.

  “Well, that’s just great,” she says icily. “Try to make me feel even crazier than I already do. You know what?”

  Screw this, she thinks angrily.

  “Forget it,” she mumbles aloud.

  Shaking her head, she jumps up and begins to walk out. Unsure of what has come over me, I rise before she has taken three steps and gently wrap my fingers around her impossibly tiny wrist. She whirls around, her lips parted, and when she looks into my eyes, I feel a sensation unlike any before it. Her knees give out and she lurches forward, wincing when I reach out to steady her. Leading her to the table, I lower her into the chair, watching as she stares down at her wrist, her heart racing.

  Did one little touch from him seriously make me—what? Swoon? God, I hate that word.

  Sitting across from her once again, I try to gain control over whatever has been unleashed inside me. Wren looks over at me with a wary expression, her eyes widening as she watches
me. Through her eyes, I see my jaw is tense and my eyes glowing as I struggle to regain control. Concentrating, I release my jaw and attempt to soften my expression. However, I am suddenly stricken with the need for her to understand why I have made the choices I have. Leaning forward, I force myself to appear unaffected even as I silently beg her to understand that I mean her no harm—that I would do anything to prevent it.

  “Why haven’t you told anyone about your …” I pause, debating the best way to categorize her preternatural ability. “Hmm, shall we call it talent?”

  Her eyes widen again—with anger and fear this time—and she leans toward me.

  “We’re not talking about me!” she hisses.

  I hold out my hand in tacit acknowledgment, watching as her eyes track from the tips of my fingers to the muscles in my forearms, all the way to my shoulders. Blushing, she shakes her head.

  Come on. Pull it together, Wren! she pleads with herself.

  “I’m simply trying to make a point,” I say, watching as her eyes flicker to mine.

  She looks around, wary of anyone close enough to overhear her, before leaning forward again.

  “Do you know what would happen to me if anyone found out?” she asks urgently. “If I got lucky, everyone would think I was a few cards short of a full deck. Or I’d wind up in some top-secret bunker out of a sci-fi movie and spend the rest of my life being prodded like a lab rat by men in white coats.”

  She stares at me for a moment.

  “They would do the same to you.”

  “So, given that logic, are you willing to assume that some secrets are better kept?” I ask as I wait for her to grasp that my secret is also safer if it remains unknown to her.

  Her hot chocolate drink, with her name misspelled on the side of the cup, is moments from being set on the counter. Rising, I walk to the counter to retrieve it and return, aware that she is staring at me again.

  “Thanks,” she mumbles.

  Hot cocoa? I feel like such a little kid, she thinks before straightening.

  “So? You know my secret … and I still know absolutely nothing about you. That’s not exactly fair.”

  I look down, torn between what I want and what is right. When she shakes her head in frustration, I look up at her.