Ever (The Ever Series Book 4)

by C. J. Valles

  “What a pleasant surprise. A welcoming party,” the Batak man says.

  The English sounds strange on the tongue of this native Austronesian speaker. I watch impassively as the man’s head turns to take in the view.

  “You have the arrogance to believe that this world is yours, servus? His highness will rule any world he sees fit. You are nothing, and he shall see you punished for your disloyalty. And anything you care for in this world, I shall enjoy crushing as you watch.”

  He is referring to Audra, which would be enough to enrage me—yet I cannot help but envision Wren Sullivan at this creature’s mercy. The fact that Audra never broke under his or Victor’s attentions is a testament to her strength, not to a lack of effort on their part. What we endured before escaping Victor’s realm, I would never ask Audra to suffer again, and it is why I know she—or Chasen—would destroy Wren without hesitation.

  “That human suit is hardly becoming on you, Cerberus,” I say mildly.

  According to Greek and Roman legend, Cerberus, a multi-headed beast with a serpent’s tail, a mane of snakes, and a lion’s claws, guarded the entrance of the underworld to prevent the dead from escaping and the living from entering. Certainly it is an appropriate name for the beast standing before me.

  “Cerberus? How I do enjoy your penchant for human folklore,” he chuckles.

  “It is only fitting, seeing as we exist in the human world, and you never will. You shall remain nothing more than a myth from a dead realm. Please pass on my regards to your liege when you go back to hell.”

  Lifting my hand, I employ only enough energy to exorcise him from the human body he has possessed. Upon regaining control of his mind and body, the human man looks at me curiously before returning to the fishing boat several meters away.

  The other side is growing stronger, and the only reason they fail to suspect that I have found the last human vessel is because they know I would have destroyed her by now. There is no rational or logical explanation for the path I have taken, and it is a fortunate error that no being from across the divide—including those of who escaped—would believe I have any motive beyond sealing the gateway between dimensions.

  I fail to comprehend completely what draws me to Wren Sullivan. Certainly the pull she exerts upon me is earthly in nature. Like the tide that relentlessly draws the ocean’s waves to the shore. Like the Earth’s pull toward the sun and moon’s pull toward the Earth.

  Shifting back to the darkened road in Portland, Oregon, I reach out with my thoughts. Tarabocchia’s mind, again, is useless to me, but the other members of Wren’s group are mostly lucid—yet I see no sign of her through their eyes, and I have no sense of her. I shift to the shadowy end of the pool, searching her friends’ minds in vain for some passing thought of her.

  Then I find an image from a girl at the front door of the house.

  What the hell? Were those guys chasing her? Wonder if I should call the cops …

  I see a blurred vision of Wren, her face pale with fear as she runs by the girl. By the time I shift to the front door of the house, the girl whose mind I saw is bent over at the waist, vomiting on the front lawn.

  Then I feel it. A flash of terror, an image of a large evergreen looming out of fog rolling through the West Hills. I sense other minds, their thoughts blurred by adrenaline and chemicals.

  Little bitch is out here somewhere.

  Coldness descends over me.

  “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

  Focusing on his thoughts, I watch as four other young men fan out in search of Wren. Finally I see it—a sign for Springville Memorial Gardens. Shifting to the car, I viciously crank the wheel and fly toward the main road before abandoning the car at the entrance to the cemetery. Again I begin searching for some sign of Wren when I hear voices.

  “Gotcha!”

  The sound of Wren screaming sends another pulse of dread through me.

  “Guys, I’ve got—”

  With a tenuous grip on this man’s location I shift behind him, intent on destroying all of them when Wren elbows her captor in the gut and begins sprinting headlong into the cemetery, straight toward the cliff. Shifting several meters in front of her, I wait to grab her. To my surprise, she increases her speed and runs directly into my chest. With the breath knocked from her lungs, she falls backward until I grip her around her waist.

  Pulling her to my chest, I look up, enjoying very much what I am about to do—more so when I catch an image from the mind of the man truly pursuing Wren. The others have little idea what their acquaintance has planned. I send out a pulse strong enough to incapacitate them and feel Wren wilt in my arms—unconscious, but seemingly unharmed.

  After gently lowering her to the ground and taking her phone from her pocket, I rise and walk over to the man lying in the grass several meters away. I jolt him awake with a spike of heat.

  “Who the hell are you?” he mutters, sitting up and reaching for his head.

  I could kill him. In fact, the monster in me craves it. He is no innocent. He is as close to pure evil as humans come. His only pleasure is derived from pain, and even if he is no longer a danger to Wren, I cannot allow him to damage another living being. Opening a small window into my mind, I watch as his eyes fill with fear. He screams and falls back into the grass, clawing at his skin before falling unconscious again.

  He will be lucky if he can tie his own shoes by morning.

  Walking to Wren, I drop down and touch her cheek, waiting for her to awaken. She remains motionless. She should have been insulated from the energy blast, but there is no way to be sure.

  “Wren,” I say quietly.

  Grasping her shoulders, I lift her toward me, searching her for signs of damage. She finally blinks.

  Can’t feel my hands or my feet …

  A bolt of panic courses through me as she looks up at me, and I gingerly shake her. Then I see my expression through her eyes—one of horror and panic. I continue to study her closely until I feel certain her muteness and inability to stand without assistance are from shock and nothing more serious. She looks around, her eyes catching on the cemetery’s mausoleum. When she jerks in my arms, I realize how closely I have been holding her. Her head swings to the other side, her eyes catching on the prostrate men. She looks to my other hand, expecting to find a weapon, and then pulls against me with more vigor.

  I know he did something.

  Noticing one of the men beginning to stir, I circle my arm around her and easily urge her toward the car despite her unwillingness.

  “What did you do?” she gasps, still trying to make sense of the men lying on the cemetery’s lawn.

  “We can’t stay here,” I tell her firmly.

  “Are they dead?” she demands with rising agitation.

  The fact that she has any concern for their welfare—and seemingly none for her own—provokes me.

  “I hope so,” I spit with more emotion than intended.

  As far as the other four are concerned I care not what happens to them, but the one whose intent was to hurt her in such a profoundly brutal and appalling way—I should have killed him. She pulls against me, struggling in vain.

  It’s like I’m pulling against stone.

  Suddenly she looks up at me with a horror-struck expression.

  Why do I get the terrible feeling he would just swing me over his shoulder if I put up any more of a struggle?

  I suppress a smile as I pull her toward the car. Opening the passenger-side door, I carefully lower her into the seat and shut the door, very aware that I am contravening her dictate to ‘stay the hell away’ from her. Fortunately for me, it was unavoidable. This thought process, however, disturbs me. Am I relieved that she was pursued through a dark cemetery by a pack of young men—one of whom was a deranged degenerate?

  The answer is yes—any reason to be near her.

  She reaches for the safety belt, and then dazedly stares at her hand. When I reach to fasten the belt across her, she jumps, her pul
se spiking. Then, as the car begins moving, she begins to shake, tears streaking down her cheeks. My attention shifts, and I watch through one of the young men’s minds as he awakens and stumbles from the cemetery, leaving his comrades behind.

  Wren turns to stare out the window, reliving a scene she saw in his mind—something she never should have had to see. Reaching over, I gently grasp her chin with my fingers and turn her head. She stares uncomprehendingly at me, and I frown when I see nothing in her mind—only the emptiness of abject fear. Her head lolls to the side when I release her. Winding through the hills, I stop at the first service station with a market. When I step out of the car, she continues to stare at the window, unaware of my departure. Inside the store, I briefly debate. I should see her safely home, but what I should do is no longer what I wish to do.

  I wish to be with her. I wish … for something that is impossible.

  When I return to the car with an energy drink—which is mostly high fructose corn syrup, artificial coloring, and trace amounts of sodium—I unscrew the lid and hold out the bottle. She stares at me, her eyes beginning to glaze over.

  “Please,” I say softly, coaxing her to take the bottle.

  Reaching out, she takes it in both hands and begins to gulp the liquid. As the sugar enters her system, her mind focuses on mundane details rather than the depraved appetites of a sociopath.

  Why do they call it lemon-lime when it doesn’t taste like either one? she contemplates.

  I begin driving toward Portland proper, and by the time she finishes the liquid, she looks around, her anxiety instantly renewed.

  “My friends!” she cries.

  She stares suspiciously at me as I hold out her phone.

  “Call and tell them you have a ride home,” I instruct in a tone that suggests I will not entertain other options.

  Briefly she debates returning to the party before sending a short message to Ashley Stewart that neglects to mention recent events. In the time it takes her to send the message, I already have parked at the base of Portland’s Japanese Garden. I find this place peaceful at night, the garden’s flora well tended and complemented by traditional Japanese architecture, waterfalls, pond, and sand and stone garden. Wren looks out the window, expecting to see her house, as I step out and open her door. When I hold out my hand, she looks up at me with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and gratitude.

  Run screaming or thank him for saving my life—again?

  I have never pleaded with a human in the history of their existence in this dimension; yet I find myself doing just that, repeatedly.

  “Please. I can’t take you home. Not yet. You’re in shock.”

  I, of course, fail to mention that I will be watching over her all night as well—but she needs not know such things. She is poised to argue with me before taking a mental assessment.

  My arms and legs are still weak and my ears are ringing.

  She nods, more to herself than me, before reaching out and taking my hand. If I previously could have denied her effect upon me, I can no longer. Her touch is at once a salve and a stimulant. It is as though I have truly awakened for the first time, and pieces of me I never thought would be healed have nearly been forgotten in the wake of these brief moments in her presence.

  Even as the energy surges between us, she remains so convinced I feel nothing for her that she again persuades herself that the sensation is hers alone. She pulls her hand from mine as we begin traversing the zigzagging slope. Upon seeing the horripilation of her skin, I contemplate the term goose flesh. Yes, I suppose the involuntary response of human skin to cold or fear does resemble the skin of a plucked goose. The simple sight of her bare skin reignites the impulse to touch her. Instead, I remove my jacket and place it over her shoulders. She looks up, studying me.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asks curiously.

  I lift my shoulders in a characteristic human gesture. When she stumbles over a ripple in the pavement, I grasp her arm only long enough to steady her. At the crest of the hill, she stops and looks around, suddenly aware that wherever I have brought her is not open for business. Her lips form a crooked smile.

  This probably isn’t real, anyway. More like the entire night has been a strange dream.

  “Where are we?” she whispers.

  “The Japanese Garden.”

  I begin walking again, smiling as she stands frozen.

  Like the word trespassing doesn’t apply to him!

  “Are you serious?” she hisses.

  I cross the entrance, and she stops, waiting for a security system to announce our presence to the police.

  “You’re not going to be arrested,” I tell her lightly as I turn and begin walking.

  I hear her soft footfalls as she begins following after me.

  “With my luck, anything is possible,” she mumbles.

  She studies the landscape, impressed with the scenery despite her imperfect human vision. I walk slowly down the embankment toward the pond, my hand barely skimming her elbow until we reach the water. When she walks to the bench and takes a seat, I lean against the fence. Breathing, blinking, fidgeting … leaning—yet another mannerism that puts these creatures at ease. I also remain far enough from her that I cannot reach out to touch her.

  With a small smile, she looks down at the jacket draped across her shoulders before her eyes travel to me and then to the moon. Suddenly her features cloud over as adrenaline increases her heart rate. When she looks at me again, she is acutely aware of my stillness as I absorb her features in the moonlight. She straightens, silently reprimanding herself for believing the situation to be romantic.

  “What happened back there? What happened to those guys? Did you … ?” She stops, swallowing her fear. “Did you really kill them?”

  Again, I feel a swell of rage as I envision very clearly the assault she would have suffered had I not intervened.

  “Do you have any idea what would have happened if I hadn’t found you?”

  She blinks and swallows, shivering as she revisits the scene she gleaned from that man’s mind. I look away, and when I regain eye contact, I feel myself softening as her eyes fill with tears.

  “They will wake up tomorrow with a headache,” I tell her mildly. “It’s better than they deserve.”

  I refrain from mentioning that one of them will most likely be in a vegetative state by morning.

  “And what about me? Huh? What happened to me? And don’t you dare say, ‘You hit your head,’ or I swear I’ll hurt you.”

  I smile thinly.

  “Will you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  I cannot believe I am goading this girl. What I expect to come of it, I cannot say.

  “You think this is funny?” she demands.

  “I think it’s rather amusing that you’re angry with me.” I shake my head reprovingly. “For what again exactly?”

  “For … making me feel completely insane!” She throws her hands into the air. “Seriously, can’t you for once just make sense? Yesterday you were so mean. And, believe me, I got it. I’m supposed to ignore you even when you’re stalking me—why I don’t know. I mean, who am I? Nobody. And really! I can’t see a damn thing in your head. Then you just appear out of nowhere right before those guys …”

  She stops, closing her eyes briefly, and takes a breath.

  “I’m sorry for that,” I tell her softly. “I should have known better than to leave you alone. It was reckless.”

  Already I have said too much, enough to make her even more curious. Looking away, I debate wiping her memory again, but it is not without risks—risks I am increasingly unwilling to take with this strange, contradictory creature. When I return my gaze to her, she continues to stare up at me with a mystified expression.

  “You know, all I want is a rational explanation. That’s it.”

  Rising from my perch on the fence, I move more swiftly than is judicious when in human company. Wren flinches when she finds me standing before her.

  “What
if there isn’t a rational explanation? If the truth isn’t something you want to hear? Have you contemplated that?” I demand quietly.

  She leaps from the bench and stares up at me with defiance blazing in her eyes.

  “You know I have.”

  “And what if I am evil? What will you do then?”

  My tone is mocking, derisive—and as I step even closer, Wren’s breath hitches and she takes a step back before holding herself ramrod straight.

  “Are you … ?”

  She stops mid-question, thinking herself ridiculous, and I capitalize on her uncertainty by laughing at her consternation.

  “You owe me the truth,” she snaps.

  Her wounded riposte gouges something deep within me.

  “I owe no one.”

  I see my anger, bordering on madness, through her eyes moments before her mother places a call to her phone. The device vibrates, and I watch remorsefully as she reaches into her pocket with a trembling hand. Trying to stem her tears, she looks down and grimaces.

  “Great,” she murmurs before answering.

  Caroline Sullivan maintains a cheerful, unworried tone despite fretting over her daughter’s safety.

  Wren checks the time on her phone.

  A quarter to midnight: almost pumpkin time. Which means Ever will turn into what?

  “I’m on my way,” she says brightly to her mother. “I’ll see you in the morning, ’kay?”

  Even if I were only equipped with human hearing, I would have been capable of hearing her mother’s next comment.

  “Was your boyfriend there?” Caroline Sullivan chirps, unaware of her daughter’s present company.

  Wren closes her eyes.

  “No, he wasn’t,” she answers softly.

  “All right. Sleep tight, baby.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  Ending her phone call, Wren stares down at the device in her hand, silently debating.

  If he doesn’t think I deserve the truth, then I just don’t care any more.

  Without looking at me, she turns away and starts walking, ready to call her young friends for a ride home. I shift directly behind her, caught between what I want to do and what I should do.