“What the heck is this about?” I hold it out for Wes to see.
“Asterion—school mascot.”
“Asterion? Let me guess, we’re the Ephemeral Asses? And I thought the Cider Plains Hedgehogs were a blight on our scholastic career.”
How I long for the days I sweltered in misery, afraid I’d never leave that speck on the map—hating anything to do with Cider Plains. Now I would shove us all back in caskets just to have its warm soil covering us like a blanket.
“We’re not the Asses, Laken.” He twists his lips. “We’re the Minotaurs.” He holds up two fingers in a bouncing salute.
I see they’ve indoctrinated him well.
Wes looks at me with his lids half closed, examining, inspecting me as if he were considering his options. “You really hook up with some guy named Tucker?”
I hold out my hands. “I’m damaged goods.” I can easily throw Kresley in his face, but I would never do that. “Do you think less of me?” I say it low, afraid of what his answer might be.
“No. It makes me want to kill him. You said Donovan?”
“I guess you were listening.” It takes all of my strength to drag my eyes off him, punch in the number to the house, and listen as it rings. Lacey is probably in school by now, and Mom is either at the Laundromat or on the way to the diner, but I ache to hear the spiel Mom rattled off in French on our crappy old answering machine. I’d die to hear her voice just one last time. Despite all of our verbal confrontations, all of the name-calling sprees—my parched ears ache for her voice.
You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.
My mind tramples through the possibilities. Mom lost it. She’s so devastated over my disappearance she hasn’t paid the bills in months.
“What’s going on?” His eyebrows come to life.
“Phone’s disconnected.” It sings from me like the saddest song. Casper’s laptop catches my attention. I head over to the desk and hop on the Internet.
“Now what?” Wes pulls a chair beside me and slips his warm hand over the back of my neck.
“Facebook.” I bet I have tons of RIPs and miss yous. I didn’t have many close friends, but in a town like Cider Plains, when someone dies, you were automatically grafted into every single family, you were everyone’s best friend—they miss you that much. I experienced this firsthand when Fletch died, Wes, too. I’ll blow Wesley’s world to pieces if I show him his old account. All those pictures we took our last Halloween together, the ones of us kissing down at the lake while we soaked in the last few days of summer. Wes took as many pictures as he did paint them. “I can’t find it.” A few Laken Stewarts pop up—none of them me.
“You’ve got the wrong last name.” Wes leans over and types in Laken Anderson, and there I am—smiling with a fedora pushed low over my head.
“That’s not me,” I whisper in protest. I scroll down.
Shit. I have a history that stretches for months—one that coasts well past my supposed car accident this past summer, one that includes an ex-boyfriend named Miles Richards who I wouldn’t know from a stranger on the street or a wanted picture at the post office.
“Oh my God.” The words stream out of me in a panic. Something is seriously very wrong.
I type in, Lacey Stewart. She begged Mom to let her have an account last June until Mom finally caved. She has a sum total of ten friends because she was instructed to keep it simple, and I know full well I’m one of those ten—but nothing. No Lacey, no Mom, no Tucker Donavan, no Amber Garrett, my best friend at Cider Plains High. I Google the Ridgefield Community Art Colony where Mom holds questionable unemployment as a docent twice a week in addition to her meat and potato grind at the diner, but it’s like it never existed. The webpage, the map, everything is gone. Finally, I look up Cider Plains. I know we’re small, less than a speck of dust on the map, less important than dust in general—and, again, nothing surfaces. Strange. I type in Ridgefield, same thing. I type in Kansas just to be safe. Sure enough, whoever did this didn’t bother to wipe an entire state off the grid.
“So that’s Tucker.” Wes nods into the screen at a picture of me in the arms of Miles Richards.
“No, that’s someone I’ve never met before.”
“Look.” He points to my comment below his. LOL! I’m going to start calling you Tuck! It’s officially your new name. Tucker Donavan.
A harsh roll of nausea burns through me. Someone has either gone through a hell of a lot of trouble redefining my life, or I’ve managed to lose every last marble that I have ever owned.
The demonic wallpaper crouches in on me with its horrible echo and I press my palms into my eyes to keep from bawling.
I was sure I was right. I was positive I knew who I was—that I saw Casper head into the forest.
“Come here.” Wes pulls me in, holding me safe in his arms. He massages the back of my neck with his strong hands, presses his lips against my temple, and sends a lightning bolt of pain ripping through me in the process.
“So, a tree house, huh?” I lean in against his chest. It feels safe like this nestled into Wes—nestled in the lie.
“Tree house.”
I push back and catch his gaze.
“What were those things in the forest?”
“Fems.”
“Tell me everything.”
“I won’t tell you.” He gives a devilish grin. “I’ll show you.”
10
Spectators, and Fems, and Counts, Oh My
The Ephemeral library is a monolithic structure that I’m sure rivals any European mid-century church or basilica, at least from the pictures I’ve seen.
A vaulted ceiling stretches up for what feels like miles, gold inlays in the alcoves expand across the facility in leaping fits, flanked below with dark rich mahogany bookshelves that pull out for acres.
A series of stained-glass windows filter in a defused rainbow of light, each with its own intricate mosaic—one of a woman down on her knees before a pack of wolves, one of a man with his face and body comprised of fruits and vegetables, and another of a couple with an infinity symbol above their heads. Misery is etched into their faces, both with downturned smiles. I could stare for hours at what the artist might be trying to convey. The reticent truths veiled in the dull hues, the meanings, the story behind each picture.
“This place is gorgeous,” I whisper.
“You want to work here?” Wes offers, breezing us through the facility.
“Do I need a job?”
We land in a narrow aisle of bookshelves, free from roving eyes.
“Yes, that would be school canon, number nine.” He pauses to pick up my hand. Wes ignites in a sweet country smile. His cheeks burst to life with color as he interlaces our fingers. “Each student gets a job—usually on campus.” The corners of his lips quiver. “I’m an O.A., Orientation Assistant. Consider this a part of your official orientation.” His brows rise slowly. Wes is seducing me with his words, whether or not he’s aware of it. “I also happen to work here.”
“Where do I sign up?” I bounce on my toes reflexively. The thought of spending all my free time with Wes almost makes up for the fact my entire past may have just blipped itself out of existence. That and the fact my only real friend may currently be residing in the digestive tract of some wild beast that has no classification in any phylum known to man.
What the hell am I saying?
I’m not buying Rycroft or some guy named Miles. No matter how much they tinker with the world, they can’t change what I know.
Wes frowns at me before walking us past rows and rows of massive, long tables. A sprinkling of students gaze off into their laptops. A few are lost in books. The population is sparse in general. It makes me wonder why anyone at all would want to spend the official last day of summer in the library, but here I am, an answer to my own question.
Wes sits me down at a round table in the back and reappears after a few minutes with a small stack of books. Hi
story of our Lineage, Angels through time, Nephilim Today, Book of Knowledge.
“What’s this?” I pull one forward.
“Some light reading I thought might help jog your memory.” His affect darkens as if he might be serious.
“A study of angels?” I brush my fingers over the dry leather cover.
“Nephilim.”
“Is that what we saw in the woods?”
“No, Laken. That’s what you are.” Wes doesn’t smile, laugh, or give any indication he might be teasing. He’s serious as death, unapologetic in every way.
“Are you one these… Nephilim?”
He gives a slight nod.
“Is that what Ephemeral is? Some kind of school for angels?”
“No.” He gives a dull laugh.
“Then why are the books in the library?”
He holds up a gold key attached to a plastic coil.
“I have celebrity access.” His dark brows arch. “I’m not letting you in on any deep dark secret. You already know these things. I just want to help you fill in the blanks. I want to see your memory come back.” There’s something painful about the way he expresses it. Like I’ve contracted a deadly disease, and the only cure is to go along with everything he says, swallow down every morsel—believe it if I can.
“So fill me in.” I sag into my seat. “Who knows, maybe it’ll all come flooding back.”
“You’re a Count, like me,” Wes gleams. He sparks to life on a level I’ve never witnessed before—as if being a Count were his only goal, and now that he’s achieved it, there was nothing to do but bask in the glory.
“There are five factions of angels that descended from the Nephilim, Countenance being the most powerful then the Celestra, who believe they’re the most powerful, but, in truth, they’ve dwindled to the point of insignificance. Rumor has it they’ll be eradicated by prom.” He pauses to offer a sober smile. Wes looks cuttingly handsome while threatening the Celestra people. It intrigues me and scares the hell out of me at the same time. “Noster, who are not at all friendly, and if they try to befriend you, run the other way. They have plans that generally don’t include our kind. Deorsum—often mistaken for witches. Levatio, they will bore you to tears with their sleight of hand magic tricks. The end.”
“The end?” Truthfully, I’m fascinated. Wes knows full well he’s whet my appetite, and now he’s going to make me dig for it. “Why are these Deoreo’s often mistaken for witches? Is it the pointy hats? Is that what gives them away?” I mean to smile into the sarcasm, but my face fills with heat.
Wes lingers into me with an intensity that ignites my stomach into a hot ball of fire. “Deorsum—no pointy hats, I promise. They’ve mastered the art of making people do their bidding. There aren’t enough of them to worry about, and those who do run around are too lazy to make a real difference with their powers. They’ll make you fetch their breakfast but would never dream of forcing a farmer to hand over his fields.”
“Okay, so what makes us special?”
“The Countenance, in general, has significant pride in their organization. We want to make the world a better place. We serve the people. That’s what angels do—we serve.”
“So”— I shake my head—“how do I serve?” This is all starting to sound like a bad horror movie and soon I’ll be lured to a cabin in the woods—then again, that’s how this whole nightmare started.
Wes rubs his thumb up against my hand. I’d listen to anything Wes wanted to tell me—I’d eat his lies thick as tire tread, as long as he never lets go.
“Just be you. Get good grades, keep out of trouble—out of the forest.” He lingers on those last few words as though they were the focused intent of the entire conversation.
“What the hell was that in the forest, Wes?”
It takes a good few seconds before he opens one of the books and fumbles through the pages.
“Here,” he says, pointing to a black and white sketch on old parchment. “Fems.” His thumb lands next to a picture of a wild-looking beast with three tongues, standing erect on cloven hooves. “They side with Countenance. They’re a higher order of angelic beings that rule the spiritual world around us, called the ethereal plane. Sectors side with Celestra.” His finger slides over to a handsome man with wings twice the size of his body.
I pull the book toward me and study both creatures in detail.
Crap. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed for Wes or frightened for him. Man-birds? He wants me to buy into angels lock, stock, and barrel? And accept the fact that I’m one, too?
To fundamentally believe in such mythological creatures, I’d have to take a step back from all of the trappings of reality and one large leap the hell away from my sanity. Although, I’ve already done that, or should I say the living dead and the Fems have done it for me.
The Fem in the book is depicted as a monster covered in scales, his eyes spread too far on either side of its misshapen head. There is a viciousness about him that makes me want to avoid rather than side with him. But the Sector is comely. I want to know all about him, lie in the grass and peel the skin off grapes while feeding him from my teeth.
“We get monsters, and they get angels that look like underwear models?”
Wes pulls his lips into a line at my analogy. “Our monsters have the ability to morph into whatever creature they want.” He drags his finger back across the page. “Sectors don’t generally do that.”
“So why not choose kittens, penguins, or unicorns? Why graveyard refugees and mutant creatures?”
“Graveyard refugees?” Wes narrows in on me as though I had injected something absurd into this oh-so-lucid conversation.
“Yeah, it was like a zombie. I saw one the first day I got here.”
“And you escaped,” he whispers in disbelief.
I decide to leave out the detail of being rescued. I did end up taking off so I guess, yeah, I escaped. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like spilling all the info about my incident in the woods, specifically the boy who saved my life by way of gouging out the demon’s brain.
“It’s not a zombie. And what you saw was no Fem. It’s called a Spectator. It’s a dangerous creature, Laken. Promise me you’ll never go into those woods alone.”
“Why the hell hasn’t the fire department, the swat team or some government sci-fi agency quarantined the area? You really think it’s a good idea to run a boarding school next to the killing fields?” Really, compulsory isolation seems like a no brainer in this situation—a good old-fashion electric fence couldn’t hurt either.
He gives a tired blink.
“The forest is usually harmless. Recently we’ve had evidence of wolves on the premises, and they’ve put a sound barrier around the area to keep them from wandering onto campus. There haven’t been any sightings by students. The school has invested heavily to ensure nothing crosses those boundaries.”
I’m not certain how we migrated from zombies—Spectators—to wolves who are being kept at bay by essentially Beethoven or whatever the hell it is they’re playing over their undetectable “sound system.”
I frown openly at him. The word nothing seems to be a replacement for the creatures Wes is hesitant to speak of, and his reticence sends me into a tailspin.
“Bullshit,” I whisper. “I guarantee Casper has already morphed into the friendly ghost she has long since been destined to become. I promise, if she does come home tonight, it’s by some miracle of God and quite possibly a resurrection because I followed her in—I heard her scream. The school will be hit with a serious lawsuit if her parents find out the only barrier protecting her from an evil pack of wolves was some lousy stereo. You used to hunt, Wes. Are you even listening to anything you’re saying?”
One thing’s for sure, I make a lousy disciple to Wesley indoctrination—for starters, I don’t believe a damn word.
Wes pulls back and relaxes into his chair. There’s a marked, pissed off, expression that’s counterintuitive to the smile he wants me t
o buy.
“Let’s keep your ideas to ourselves,” his voice strains just pushing the words out. It’s taking everything in him not to shake me into compliance, I can tell. “Laken, listen.” He drills into me with an unwavering stare. “You would be remiss to share any of this with your uncle.” His eyes narrow. “You’ll be back in the hospital loaded up on a mountain of drugs before you have a chance to warm a seat in this place. Odds are you won’t remember how to tie your shoes.” He pulls me in slow and deep, so close I could kiss him. A powerful surge of adrenaline pulsates through me. Wes with all his dark majesty burns a hole through me with those laser-green eyes. “I’ll help you through this, Laken.” His jaw stiffens. “Just don’t tell a soul.”
11
School Spirit
On the way to the Ridley Hall, Wes takes me past Asterion, a fifteen-foot tall bronze statue, situated dead center of the quad with long horns that curl toward heaven.
The gleaming beast stands erect with an insolent pride as he gives a silent homage to darkness. He stains the swirling fog with his haunting impression. Something about his brazen arrogance lets you know he has an agenda, that he can crawl into your nightmares and show you who’s real and who’s the statue.
“Freaky,” I say, bringing my hand to my neck. If Lacey ever saw this monstrosity, she’d break out in a fit of hysterics. His chest is buff as a body builder. His head looks like some horrific Halloween mask. I scroll my eyes across the monolithic beast and note the rather well-endowed bulge between his heavily molded thighs. “Oh!” I give a hard blink in disgust. “That is so obscene.”
“What’s obscene?” Wes challenges me to itemize in detail the offense in question.
“His package, Wes,” I snip, withholding a laugh. “In the event you’re not aware, school mascots were never intended to strut their stuff.”
“What?” He balks through a laugh. “If mascots aren’t allowed to strut their stuff, what kind of world are we living in?”