Ever (The Ever Series Book 4)

by C. J. Valles

  My disappointment is harshest in the wake of having had something to look forward to in this existence.

  During the nutrition period, Wren’s female friends once again interrogate her, thrilled by the prospect that I spoke to her earlier in the morning. As they are discussing the sporting event taking place later in the afternoon—featuring Jeffrey Summers—Ashley Stewart mentions a party after the baseball game. Suddenly I fear that my present strategy may be lacking.

  If I were closer to Wren, I would be better positioned to keep her from harm. Or am I only trying to convince myself of that because I wish to be closer to her? She is, after all, in danger because of me. Fortunately, Wren appears anxious rather than excited about both the baseball game and the party, and I entertain the slimmest hope that she will decide not to attend.

  I decide to forego the next two periods, cognizant that I do not have the patience for pretense. Shifting to the car, I shadow Wren’s movements. She remains distracted and out of sorts, likely attributable to our earlier interaction. In her chemistry period, I watch as Jeffrey Summers turns in his seat and stares at her as she stares at her assignment from the night before, completely unaware of him.

  What the hell is wrong with this chick? Every other girl in this school would gladly jump—

  Shaking my head, I clear my mind. It is not helping to listen to his filth. Certainly other boys in this school have glanced at Wren Sullivan with curiosity or have entertained the errant amorous fantasy. Summers, though, is excessively abrasive.

  I refocus and wait, unable to prevent myself from imagining what would take place if I were to speak with her, draw her in. To what end? I think savagely. I can never tell her the truth. Because if I were to tell her what I am, then she would fear me more than she does now. The kindest, most merciful act I can take is to make her hate me. Her fascination and curiosity are nothing but a threat to her safety. The bell for the lunch period tolls.

  Oh my god. Ever Casey, Wren thinks nervously.

  I track her movement to her locker, and as she walks toward the cafeteria, she contemplates whether my invitation was a figment of her imagination. Reaching the entrance, she casts a nervous glance into the cafeteria as I shift to an empty corridor before walking over to her.

  “Shall we?”

  She jumps and spins around, swallowing as she looks up at me. When she smiles nervously, I gesture toward the table I have occupied for the past few months. Nodding, she begins to follow me.

  This has to be a dream. How many times have I imagined this?

  Catching a glimpse of students who have stopped to stare at us, she looks down.

  Of course people notice me now that I’m with him. I think I preferred invisibility.

  I stop in front of the table. Then, with flourish, I pull out a chair for her. My gesture does not go unnoticed, and, taking her seat, Wren flushes as she watches me sit across from her. She stiffens when she sees my expression, which I can see reflected in her eyes, and her breathing hiccups as she stares at me.

  “This is what you’ve been fantasizing about. Isn’t it?” I ask her in a cold, patronizing tone.

  Her lips part, and she continues to stare at me as though she truly is waiting to awaken from a nightmare.

  How could I have been so stupid? she thinks.

  “I can’t believe I even thought you were human,” she snaps, recovering her senses.

  Her words startle me for a single instant. Then the chair skids out from behind her and she bolts out of her seat, taking hold of her bag and swinging it over her shoulder.

  “I told you things were better this way,” I say icily. “You clearly didn’t absorb that the first time.”

  She briefly closes her eyes, imagining the sensation of my fingers brushing her cheek, and I feel a dull ache at the thought of never touching her skin again.

  This guy is absolutely, certifiably nuts, she thinks as she looks at me.

  “Yeah?” she asks. “And whose fault is that? Just stay the hell away from me. I mean it.”

  I watch as tears well up in her eyes before she stumbles away from the table. She is on the verge of bolting from the cafeteria when she catches sight of her male friends approaching me. Rising, I depart as she hurries to intercept them. The moment I exit the cafeteria, out of sight from the curious eyes watching my departure, I shift to the coast—Wren’s wounded expression burning in my mind. Stripping out of my clothing, I dive into the water as her friends question her.

  “Lovers’ quarrel?” Marcus White asks her in his usual teasing manner.

  Wren winces.

  “Give it a rest,” she says, clearly not amused.

  “Well, what’d you say to him? ’Cause I thought laser beams were going to shoot out of his eyes and incinerate you.”

  This human boy’s attention to detail disturbs me. However, he was oblivious to one critical fact. My fury was in no way directed at her. My anger is for myself and for my loss. I do not wish to hurt her, and I want even less to leave her be. Yet that is the curse of what I am.

  I am meant to be alone.

  7: Reap What You Sow

  For eternities that no human could conceive of, I was a slave to a being whose sole pleasure was derived from the pain of others. The greed in my former dimension was limitless. There was no future to look forward to; there was only pain and degradation.

  Discovering the portal in the outlands at first seemed like an impossibility. Simply escaping Victor’s dominion was an extraordinary feat, and while we knew not what awaited us, it could have been no worse than the existence we endured.

  Then, in this new dimension, I became the hunter, not the hunted, and my existence assumed a new level of hell. I became what I hated.

  Alienating the only creature I have craved to be closer to is a fitting punishment. Before setting eyes upon Wren Sullivan, I had believed a future spent alone was all but inevitable. I had accepted it. Now I feel something has been torn from me. Not something I am owed, but something I want despite knowing I do not deserve it, for how could this girl look upon me with anything but revulsion if she were to know the truth?

  I watch her seated amongst her friends in the school’s bleachers. She is grateful that they have included her, yet also acutely aware that she is an outsider as she watches the baseball game with mild interest and much confusion. When the gathered students in the stands leap to their feet, cheering enthusiastically, Wren rises a moment later.

  I feel like a tourist trying to keep up with another country’s customs.

  I watch as Marcus White walks to the concession stand. When he looks around, he notices the Maserati before he sees me. Perhaps I should have removed myself from view, but some dark part of me wants her to know I am here. The boy grins as he collects a gelatinous pile of nachos before hurrying back to his group of friends.

  “Hey, Wren. Check it out. Your stalker’s back.”

  I hear her pulse quicken and watch as her eyes dart back and forth, searching for me. The boy points in my direction, and she turns—her features frozen as she stares at me.

  “Terrific,” she mutters under her breath.

  Her muscles rigid, she turns to face the game, every ounce of her attention focused behind her, as though she can feel my stare. Unable to feign interest in the game, she watches silently through the final inning.

  Closing my eyes, I search for Audra and Chasen, only long enough to ascertain their locations. Audra is in Finland; Chasen is in Antiqua. That is all I need know. I do not reach out to them—I am not prepared for their inevitable censure.

  My attention shifts as spectators begin to depart the game. Wren’s group begins in the direction of the parking lot. Ashley Stewart has offered Wren a ride, and my sole consolation is that Lindsay Gallo will not be accompanying them. The vehicle they are approaching is only four spaces from the Maserati—another intentional act on my part.

  Sick. I realize that is how my actions would be classified in American English vernacular. Twisted. Deme
nted. Obsessive. Deranged.

  I am all of these. When Wren looks up and sees me, the smile falls from her lips. Seeing the icy look on her friend’s face, Ashley Stewart turns to look at me before her gaze reverts to Wren. She rolls her eyes, but says nothing—sensing an animosity that she wants no part of. By the time they reach Wren’s house, I have parked a block away and am weighing my options. I close my eyes, imagining the look on her face.

  Just stay the hell away from me.

  I think of what humans say when a person has caused his own destruction.

  You asked for it. You got exactly what you deserved. You reap what you sow.

  I did. I asked for it, and I got exactly what I deserved. Closing my eyes, I reach out, seeking a time loop—some reassurance that if I do as she said and stay away from her, it will not end in tragedy.

  She is upstairs with her mother, discussing her plans for the evening, and I know if I leave her alone, as she requested, then she will be in danger. I am left with no choice but to follow her.

  “Is your boyfriend going to be there?” Caroline Sullivan asks her daughter.

  Wren sighs.

  Right. Like boy or friend accurately describes Ever Casey, she thinks to herself.

  “I hope not.” When her mother frowns, Wren shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

  What is going on with Wren and this boy? her mother wonders before patting Wren on the shoulder.

  I feel another ridiculous pang of regret that my attempt to alienate her has been so effective. When, less than an hour later, Wren is on her way to dinner with her friends, I find myself sitting at the back of a suburban sports bar, inundated by the smell of spilt, cheap alcohol and sweaty desperation.

  At the very moment Wren’s attention shifts to something at the front of the restaurant, I feel a human mind go black several meters away from me. A second later, there is a crash of glass, followed by a woman’s scream, which immediately falls silent. Stepping out of the booth, I see a man near the weathered pool tables, his meaty hand wrapped around the server’s neck. He turns to look at me with coal black eyes.

  I understand humans’ vision of “demons” from “Hell.” Surely, across time, many humans have witnessed the unnatural blackness of another’s eyes. Many have come under the control of a creature from across the dimensional divide, but no human mind can sustain continuous possession like Wren Sullivan’s. She has the dual curse of being the last human whose mind is powerful enough to withstand possession and also the key to opening the portal permanently. I am reminded once again that had I killed Wren Sullivan that day, the rift would have been sealed—and those from our dimension would be severed from this Earth, as we have always wished.

  “His majesty has foretold it, slave. We will have this world,” a voice purrs from the man holding the server.

  An instant later, the man’s eyes return to a watery brown color, and his hand falls from the woman’s throat. Most who witnessed what took place have no means of understanding it; others are too inebriated to have noticed. I send a low-level pulse through the room, effectively obliterating any lingering memory from most of the patrons. Setting down cash, I turn my attention to the server, who is quietly weeping. I look into her eyes for an instant, and she smiles as I replace her memory with a more pleasant one and hand her cash before walking outside. As I step into the car, I focus on Wren’s thoughts. She is unharmed; however, this incident is no coincidence. They will not relent until she is theirs. I watch through Wren’s eyes as Marcus White escorts Ashley Stewart back to their table.

  “Creeps,” the girl squeaks as Wren reassures her.

  Wren turns and watches five men at the counter of the restaurant who are clearly the source of Ashley Stewart’s alarm. One in particular has captured Wren’s attention. He is the wolf hiding amongst overzealous pups.

  Fascinating. She seems to have a strange sense of predators, regardless of whether she has read their minds or not. She also appears to be drawn to them, or they are drawn to her—perhaps an unfortunate blend of the two. I cannot exclude myself from this assemblage. However, as a killer, I am infinitely more skilled.

  I have killed to prevent annihilation; this man finds no other thrill than the pain of others, a proclivity developed at the end of a belt. I accept that his childhood at the mercy of a cruel stepfather contributed to his maliciousness, but I also know that he very well could have reached the same point even under the best of circumstances.

  As Wren’s group leaves the restaurant through the rear exit, I drive faster until I reach the parking lot of the shopping center. Pulling into a space, I watch Wren look skyward, a crooked smile on her lips as she catches sight of the crescent moon. She follows her friends into an ice cream shop across the way.

  Watching her, I have to ask myself the question: will this tenuous connection to this girl placate me? Given the greed her proximity has unleashed, I fear not. Adding to my sense of urgency is my former comrade, the one who aided our escape and then decided it best to manipulate both sides. The traitor undoubtedly will find her soon enough—and it is likely he will attempt to charm her. Whether his goal will be to offer her to Victor as a peacemaking gift, or to use her for other means, I know not.

  One fact is certain: he will not hold back. If he aims to have her, he will grant me no quarter—he will take her, a certainty that enrages me. He resembles a spoiled, recalcitrant human child who expects to have everything he wishes for. Why not? He served at the behest of an insatiable psychopath; it is only logical that he has reverted to his origins of unrestrained self-indulgence.

  He likely would use her as a bargaining tool to broker a deal with those on the other side, thus securing his place in the hierarchy he must see as inevitable. Unlike him, I do not see Victor’s ascension in this realm to be a certainty.

  Following Ashley Stewart’s vehicle through the West Hills, I refrain from turning on the car’s headlights as she passes the turn toward the party twice and must find a place to turn around on both occasions. Unlike me, she can neither hear the music from the main road nor sense the minds of countless drunken teen-age partygoers. Wren, who is sitting alone in her own row at the very back of the vehicle, peers out into the darkness.

  By the time they have reached the street crowded with abandoned vehicles, I have parked and now wait for the group of seven to make its way to the source of blaring music. As they walk through the darkness, Wren stays toward the rear of the group, as though she is debating whether to turn and run. I cannot claim I would be disappointed if she did.

  As they come upon the massive front door of the home that is pulsing with music and drunken revelry, I completely lose sight of Wren’s mind for a single instant. Then her mental voice comes back to me, and my chest loosens.

  Oh-my-god-what-am-I-doing-here.

  Dread fills me as I comprehend this new development. Is it possible that her mind has developed a defense mechanism to protect her from predators like me? In moments of heightened fear or agitation, is it possible that her mind will vanish completely from my scope of awareness?

  The answer to my question is immediate and disconcerting as her eyes dart around. I am reminded of what humans see when confronted by a stroboscopic lamp, more commonly known to teen-age humans as a strobe light. I see a brief flash of Emily Michaels, followed by segmented scenes of other young humans dancing, screaming, and gesticulating.

  When Marcus White and Tarabocchia depart from the group in search of excitement and beverages, I shift my attention to Ashley Stewart’s mind, but her perspective is of little use to me. Her thought patterns are more linear, less chaotic than Wren’s, but her attention is riveted upon the boys’ progress.

  Adding to my disquiet is the general disorder of the minds inside the house, which is making it difficult to track individual minds. If inebriated or terrified, most humans are more difficult to track. Wren, I fear, will be invisible to me soon. My sole consolation is knowing exactly where she is—at least her body if not her mind.
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  Joshua Tarabocchia’s mind is the first to disappear shortly after he has taken a second mouthful of cheap hard alcohol while Marcus White pours sodas into plastic cups. As they walk through the crowd toward the corner where Wren and her friends are waiting, I catch a glimpse of Tarabocchia’s sneakers as he contemplates his feet.

  A passing group stops at the side of the Quattroporte, and one of the boys leaps awkwardly onto the hood. The timing of his escapade displeases me, and I shift to the rooftop. When one of his friends looks up and sees me, I grin maniacally until the one on my hood turns and looks up at me. When he loses his balance and begins to fall backward, I reach out and grab the front of his shirt as I leap to the ground. Releasing my grip, I allow him to stagger toward his friends.

  Briefly, I wonder about this sensation of uninhibited youthful recklessness. Granted, with the exception of the unfortunate among them, these children never have experienced true hardship. They may someday, but for now their lives remain blissfully untouched.

  By the time my attention shifts back to Wren and her companions, I see Tarabocchia’s arms casually slung around Taylor Nguyen—and Wren, who pulls away quickly. As the group begins moving toward the back of the house, individuals’ thoughts become disjointed and muddled in the midst of the bedlam surrounding them. My only impulse is to extricate Wren from the madness, but I am all too aware of the fact that this is purely for selfish reasons.

  When Wren steps outside, I watch through Tarabocchia’s eyes as she leaves the group and bends to dip her fingers into the pool. She smiles, imagining diving beneath the water, and for a moment, I try to imagine her face if she were to see the pool at the coast.

  Suddenly I feel a disturbance in the dimensional divide—an earthquake off the west coast of Northern Sumatera. The irony is not wasted. That a member of the royal guard would enter this dimension there of all places—an area that has seen the decimation of almost half its tropical rainforest in the past three and a half decades. I shift to a remote beach baked by noonday sun and watch as he turns toward me.