Ever (The Ever Series Book 4)

by C. J. Valles

  “Wren?”

  She turns, startled by my nearness. Her heart rate increases, but not from fear. As I stare down at her, I wonder if I accurately gauged the effect I have upon her. She looks up at me, prepared to be angry. She frowns when she fails to find the derision she had been expecting from me. Again, I struggle to understand how this small, fragile, mercurial creature has—as humans put it—turned my world upside down.

  “My behavior was—has been—inexcusable. I apologize.” I shake my head. “You seem to bring out the—”

  “The worst in you?” she sighs. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll stop asking questions, but only if you tell me how you flattened five guys in a second, because that’s not even humanly … possible.”

  She stares up at me, her eyes glazed over as she remembers my face in the moment before I shifted with her out of the path of truck. Her memory of that moment in time is so clear that it startles me.

  He was there. It wasn’t a dream; it was real. Impossible, but real.

  She remains rooted in place, barely breathing as she stares up at me, and my desire to touch her is so fierce that I can feel myself vibrating with tension. The atmosphere surrounding us changes as I reach for her.

  “What are you?” she whispers.

  An instant later, she loses consciousness. Staring down at the small, limp frame in my arms, I shift to her bedroom and carefully lay her upon the bed and slip the shoes from her feet. My hand shakes as I reach down to touch her cheek.

  I watch her for a moment longer before setting her belongings on her night table and walking to the other side of the room to wait for night to pass.

  8: Atonement

  As the first rays of dawn fill her bedroom, I shift to the car, abandoned hours earlier in the parking lot of the Portland Japanese Garden. Washington Park is quiet at this hour, just a solitary figure walking a dog past the weathered tennis courts across the way. In a few short hours, this spot will be teeming with activity, even if the flowers of International Rose Test Garden will not be in bloom until April.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, I take a left, driving through the stately neighborhood bordering the park. Deep in the West Hills, I turn onto an unmarked road lined with evergreens. A timber corporation owns land on the other side of the road, but we own all the land on this side. It will never be sold, developed, or harvested.

  Apart from a single structure that is and always will be entirely “off the grid,” this land simply will exist, and as suburban development encroaches, the displaced creatures—from birds, mice, and small amphibians to hawks, coyotes, Puma concolor, and the gray wolf—will have this as a refuge as long as we exist in this dimension.

  Constructed shortly after the founding of Portland, Oregon in February, 1851, the structure itself serves as a commune or collective of sorts. During the ensuing century and a half, we have made various updates to the structure and its interior, including accommodations suitable for human habitation if it were to become necessary. When the five of us have need to meet, we convene here, or at any of a number of what might be referred to in American English vernacular as safe houses, each one entirely surrounded by natural barriers—water, impassable desert or ice, thick brush.

  Spaces uninhabitable to humankind have been our haven, but it shall not remain so. Humanity has reached every last corner of this earth, and as the human population proliferates at a rate beyond what we once thought possible, I know that we will bear witness to devastation the likes of which we have not seen since escaping our own dimension. With an exponential growth rate and limited resources, it is only a matter of time. Time and a swelling population, neither of which meant anything to us prior to our arrival in this world, will bring about humanity’s downfall—for there are not enough humans willing to look that far into a dark future.

  Likewise, if Victor ascends the throne in this dimension, the end certainly will be hastened, leaving only the ageless, those of us who already have borne witness to the unsustainable.

  Pulling to the front of the house, I stop the car and step out. I walk around the house to the large nondescript structure with a flat roof, deactivating the security system before opening the steel roll doors. The glass doors slide open with the push of a button, and I walk over to the pristine black motorcycle.

  When I shift to the front of the house, I think of the moments spent building the structure with the others. I exist quite well without the company of other beings; there is a certain quiet fulfillment that comes with solitude. Now, though, I find myself missing the company of my companions—the only creatures on this plane of existence who know what I am.

  I miss Chasen’s humor.

  I miss Audra’s austerity and her devotion, which is fully reciprocated on my part.

  I miss Alistair’s sense of hope for this plane and its inhabitants.

  I miss Persephone’s graciousness and humanity.

  What frightens me, however, is the extent to which I miss the nearness to a young human girl who knows not what I am, nor the danger I present. Thinking of her as I step inside the house, I walk the length of it, trying to inspect it through human eyes. Certain items, such as furniture and towels, are present; other more personal items, such as bathroom tissue and toothpaste, are missing.

  Remnants from activities of daily living, which tend to soil living beings, do not adhere to us in the same manner. A shower offers a pleasant sensation, but it does not improve our condition of physical cleanliness. Likewise, whereas biorhythms dictate the sleep-wake cycles of living creatures, we have no such construct. We simply exist in a perfect counterpoise with the environment.

  Reaching for my phone, I spend several minutes ordering items I assume would be useful for hosting a human. When I have completed my tasks, I walk outside and into the trees. A million sounds from millions of creatures. A red-tailed hawk soars above, calling out. Insects and microscopic organisms flourish on the forest floor. Two miles away, I hear a black-tailed deer stepping its way through the dried pine.

  If I were to stay here long enough, all manner of creatures would appear, paying me no more mind than the trees. I remain frozen, impervious to the chill in the air but aware of life moving all around me. After a time, I return to the house long enough to enjoy moments under the spray of the shower and to change clothing.

  By the time I walk to the garage, I become aware of Wren’s labored breathing—more suited to running than lying asleep in bed. A dream, and not a pleasant one at that. I take a spare helmet and slip it into a magnetic-mount tank bag that converts into a backpack and helmet carrier. As soon as I step onto the motorcycle, I feel the engine come to life. Spinning it toward the garage entrance, I slide between the 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO and the 1964 Aston Martin DB5.

  “Wren? Are you up?” her mother calls from outside Wren’s bedroom.

  Her eyes open, and I see blurred images of her dream, followed by the numerals of her alarm clock.

  What day is it? she wonders groggily.

  When her mother opens the bedroom door and stares, Wren frowns.

  “What?” she demands warily.

  “You slept in your clothes?”

  The trip to her house on the motorcycle takes less than five minutes. Pulling onto the street adjacent theirs, I watch through her mother’s eyes as Wren’s face grows pale. When she looks down and sees her clothing from the night before, her gasp is inaudible to human ears.

  I can’t remember how I got home.

  “I guess I was too tired to change,” Wren mumbles uncertainly.

  Stepping from the motorcycle, I walk toward her house.

  “Must have been quite a party.”

  Wren avoids her mother’s eye as she sits down on the edge of the bed.

  “It was all right,” Wren says.

  “Are you sure you’re not just disappointed that the boy you like wasn’t there?” her mother asks with oblivious cheer.

  Wren turns pale as she envisions staring up at me just before losing conscious
ness. Her mother waves her hand to recapture her daughter’s attention.

  “Wren? You okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I just remembered that I left my jacket in Ashley’s car.”

  Her mother begins talking about her plans for the day, which fail to involve Wren. When she makes a guilty offer to go to see a film instead, Wren shakes her head.

  “No, that’s all right.”

  Stopping on the corner of their street, I nod to a man walking his dog as Caroline Sullivan rises from where she has been sitting on her daughter’s bed and walks from the room. The moment the bedroom door closes, Wren begins trembling.

  What happened last night? And why can’t I remember?

  I begin walking toward the car as she scrambles out of bed and hurries toward her desk.

  Like I’m going to find answers on the Internet.

  What she does find is a hastily composed message from her friend Ashley Stewart. At a loss for what to tell her friend, she drums her fingers on the top of her desk before her eyes fall to a response to her used-car search.

  Finally! Good news.

  As she searches the Internet for a list of train stations, I shift to the address listed in the e-mail she opened. The house is rundown, and when I shift inside, I find an unconscious form slumped on the sofa of the living room. The man reeks of alcohol. Down the hall in a bedroom, another man is unconscious on the bed despite music blaring from the portable compact disc player on the dresser. With both of them unconscious, there is little to glean from their minds. However, nothing good can come of Wren traveling unaccompanied to this place.

  “Mom! If I take a really quick shower, can I get a ride to the train station?”

  Hearing Wren’s plea to her mother, I shift to the street where I left the motorcycle as her mother questions the wisdom of traveling alone to an unknown location. Wren swallows, and I see a glimpse of her memories from the night before—her limited vision as she runs through the foggy darkness of the cemetery.

  Alone in her room again, Wren looks around, shivering when she catches sight of her belongings sitting on the night table. Closing her eyes, she searches her memory for some explanation of how she arrived home safely. My image, as clear as I have seen it through human eyes, appears in her mind.

  I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that after saving me from the miscreants at the party, he didn’t hit me over the head with a lead pipe or spike the sports drink he gave me.

  With newfound optimism, I believe the events of the preceding night appear to have worked in my favor. Whereas only hours ago, she believed me to be ambiguously malevolent, now she has returned to wondering why I would continue to protect her from harm if I am, indeed, evil. To my regret, I still believe she would find me repulsive if only she knew what I am and what my purpose in this dimension is—or was prior to finding the last human in this dimension with powers like ours who had yet to be lured by Victor’s promise of power and wealth.

  When both mother and daughter have prepared for their respective days, I touch the motorcycle and step on, waiting for Caroline Sullivan’s copper coupe to pass the street where I wait, admittedly impatiently, confident that another opportunity to interact with Wren soon will present itself.

  I follow at a distance to the nearest MAX Light Rail Service station and wait at the edge of the parking lot as Wren says goodbye to her mother before stepping out of the car and walking toward the ticket-vending machine. I would prefer to follow her onto the train, but having a human mode of transportation, as in the case of last night, is imperative.

  After searching the map for the station closest to the address she is seeking, Wren takes a seat on the bench to wait. As a man in his mid-forties walks from the parking lot, approaching from behind her, I find his thoughts disquieting enough that I cannot leave Wren alone on an empty light rail carriage with him. Shifting behind him, I grasp him around the neck before shifting to a closed-down clothing shop in the shopping center a few miles from the light rail station.

  “I know who you are,” I hiss. “If you so much as think of another girl under the age of consent, I will be back for you.”

  “Wh-who are you?” he whimpers.

  When I spin him around, I see the cross on a metal chain on his chest.

  “An angel of light,” I whisper. “Now get thee to church, or I will have your soul for eternity.”

  His eyes become wide with fright a moment before he loses consciousness. During human existence, we have found it easier to prey upon humans’ preconceived fears rather than conjure entirely new ones that would threaten to expose our existence amongst humankind.

  I shift to the motorcycle moments after Wren’s train has departed the station. Wren is safe, seated near the back of the carriage and staring out at the passing streets. Gunning the motorcycle’s engine with an infusion of my energy, I follow the light rail’s path through the suburbs until I can no longer follow on surface streets. I take an onramp onto the freeway through the suburb of Beaverton toward downtown Portland.

  Weaving through light weekend traffic, I growl when I sense an Oregon State Police trooper on a motorcycle parked two kilometers ahead and holding a radar gun. I slow to the speed limit, following Wren’s progress as she watches the stops on a scrolling marquee. As soon as I have passed the motorcycle patrolman, I accelerate, redirecting my attention to Wren’s thoughts as I make my way toward downtown.

  I don’t know what Ever Casey is, but I’m way past the point of thinking he’s human. There’s no doubt any more. He is something … else.

  Until this moment, Wren had struggled to maintain her grip on a reality that she had accepted as absolute. I have irrevocably changed her world—that is, unless I am willing to wipe clean every memory she has of me. The question is: could I accomplish such a thing without inflicting permanent damage? It is not a risk I am willing to take. The traitor, perhaps, could suppress her memory, but for how long? And certainly if he did such a thing, it would be for his own selfish purposes.

  The damage is done. In this moment, Wren Sullivan is closer than any living human has been to knowing what I truly am. It is my duty to do everything in my power to protect her from my world, which will be my atonement for an eternity of wrongs. Perhaps if she knew the truth, she would … What? What am I expecting? That she will accept the truth with absolute equanimity? That she will trust me, a creature who has hunted her kind for millennia? That somehow she will feel anything apart from fear or loathing?

  Exiting the freeway, I make my way toward the courthouse. As I pull up on the opposite side of the square and remove the helmet, I watch as Wren steps from the light rail car—at the wrong stop. She looks longingly in the direction of the coffee shop before frowning and deciding against it. Turning to the map, she shakes her head and watches the train that would have taken her to her destination as it departs. She looks at the map again and sees that her excursion will be much longer than she anticipated.

  Putting in a pair of earbuds, she walks up and down the sidewalk, looking toward the Pioneer Square Courthouse. The square itself is lightly populated in contrast to a summer day. Wren’s eye catches on the man sitting on the brick wall several meters from her. He remains completely unaware of the outside world as he conducts a conversation with the voices in his mind. His thought patterns are disordered and difficult to follow, and as Wren studies his face, afraid to approach him, I realize that this is what I fear.

  If I were to alter Wren’s memories, or her mind itself, this could be the result. I could doom her to an existence of madness that would disconnect her from humanity even more than she is now as a mind reader. The next train arrives, and Wren steps on, staring back at the man.

  Like Ever Casey—living on another planet. His complete indifference makes sense. Is he just marking time until he can stop pretending to be something other than what he is? Which is what?

  I follow the train’s path as closely as I can, arriving at the station several minutes befo
re she will reach it. The men from the house she is traveling toward have stumbled from bed and couch, respectively, and already have begun drinking again. Staring out the window, Wren is becoming more and more anxious as she travels farther from downtown Portland. When the stop she is seeking flashes on the screen, she exhales and rises from her seat. I take off before she has stepped from the train, riding on surface streets toward the address she wrote down earlier in the morning. I note at least three “strip” clubs within a mile of Wren’s location, and given the energy she attracts, this only strengthens my impulse to pluck her from the street, thereby reducing the number of times I shall have to intervene on her behalf.

  From a distance, I survey the two men standing in front of an unkempt house at the end of the street. Several blocks away, a large, unneutered dog lunges against a chain-link fence, causing Wren’s pulse to rush. Taking off again, I circle around and park out of sight, aware that I have no right to interfere in this girl’s life any further than I already have—yet some dark part of me is thankful for the gathering of malevolent energy, as it gives me reason to stay near her.

  Becoming less and less confident in her surroundings, Wren finally reaches her destination. When she spots the car from the online advertisement, she tries to stem her disappointment in the car’s exterior. I repeat my promise to myself that I will allow her to navigate this transaction as long as there is no discernible risk to her safety. She studies the men in the driveway with admirable wariness as she notes the volume of the music, the general disarray of the cars, lawn, and driveway, as well as the presence of several open bottles of beer. The men’s thoughts are centered on the car engine in front of them, giving me very little useful information. However, a search of public records, complete with their arrest records, is very helpful.

  Wren surveys her surroundings again, her confidence reemerging when she sees a middle-aged woman across the street taking out her trash. What she cannot know is that the woman has a severe addiction to prescription pain medication, which is quite clear from her muddled thinking. In any case, this woman would be of no help to her if Wren needed assistance.