There’s the million-dollar question.
I pull Wes in by the lapel of his jacket and bite down on my lip seductively. “I’m guessing his proud display of reproductive organs is a part of some evil scheme thought up by the athletics department.”
He twists a smile, his dark brows dive in low, completely amused.
“And why would that be, Laken?” His eyes bear into mine, hungry and wanting.
“Psychological warfare.”
Wes leans in. His breath rakes over me, hot as a fire. “Is that why the opposing team’s cheerleaders are always switching sides?” He dips in low and stops shy of a kiss. Wes has become a master at the art of seduction, and this frightens me.
“Nope.” I run my finger underneath his chin. “I have a feeling it’s you that sends them running.” I don’t mean for my voice to wobble when I say it or my breathing to become erratic like I just ran a marathon.
The laughter drains from his eyes. The moment grows altogether serious, as though I had just given an official proclamation of our love right here in the quad, as if he had, too.
“Come on.” He takes a step back. “Get over there. I’ll get a picture of you next to the weapon of mass destruction.” He fiddles with my phone and takes a picture of me pointing at the Minotaur’s balls.
“You know what I’d really like?” I take the phone back and cue up the camera again.
“Sorry, Laken, those parts are welded to his body.”
“Very not funny.” I sock him in the arm. “I was thinking something a little less offensive like replacing the wallpaper on my phone with you and me.” I place my head next to his and snap a picture.
The wind picks up—swirls around the two of us as if it were trying to separate us, to whisk us away in opposite directions and bury our love under a pile of brittle leaves like it did once before.
We make our way toward a tall gothic building with an expansive wingspan and windows that stretch to the sky.
“So this is Ridley,” I whisper as an entire stream of students drain from the double doors.
“We missed orientation.” His cologne embraces me with the soft scent of musk. Old Wes never wore cologne. He held the scent of clean linens, the fresh sunshine that dried his shirts.
“It’s okay. I think I’ve had enough information for one day.” I doubt they were going to fill us in on all things angel anyway. A thought comes to me. “Hey,” I whisper, pulling him to an abrupt stop, “if those demonic monsters are supposed to be my ally, why would they attack me in the forest?”
His eyes widen with surprise as if I had just caught him in a lie. He turns his head toward the rolling lawn, thick as an ebony tapestry, and takes a deep breath.
“I don’t know.” He winces when he says it—alerts me to the fact he’s not telling the truth. I always knew when Wes was trying to fool me—although this is a far greater offense than eating the last piece of sweet potato pie and trying to pass it off on Fletch.
“You trying out for cheer?” He swallows hard, hoping I’ll take the bait and change the subject.
“Why would I try out for cheer? I make fun of cheerleaders, that’s my sport.”
“You love cheer.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through picture after picture of me in a blue cheer uniform that reads Rycroft. He pauses at the one of me in bright blue underpants as I indulge in a high kick. “That was an accident.” He gives a sly smile before replacing the phone in his pocket.
“You used to watch me cheer?” A part of me wants to bask in the glory of Wes and his flirtation, lose myself in the comma-like dimples that press in every time he smiles, but I’m still jarred by the fact he’s is trying to cover his indiscretion.
“Yes,” he presses it out in a broken whisper, “you’re like family. I’m always there for you.”
Like family—sounds like perfectly loaded bull.
“You didn’t come to watch me because I’m like your sister, Wes,” I say it accusingly, calling him out on the lie. “I doubt Fletch has a shot of me in my panties on his phone.”
“Never mind why I came to watch you cheer.” He digs a smile into the side of his cheek. “You have to join the squad. Jen will hang you in your sleep if you defer the legendary tradition of Anderson women cheering at Ephemeral.”
“My mother cheered here?” I don’t even know who this woman is, let alone feel any maternal connection to her.
“And your grandmother,” he’s quick to add.
“Do you have a picture of my mother?” Something spikes in me at the thought of seeing this person. What if it’s the mother I’ve had all along? “Do I have a little sister?” God, I hope. Fletch may have denied Lacey, but maybe she’s running around with an entirely new name? If Lacey exists in this world, I won’t fight it. I’ll accept every lie as gospel, even the fact I’m some hybrid celestial being.
“Sorry, no pictures.” He shakes his head. “And no to the little sister. You have Jen, she probably counts as a little sister.” He flexes a smile. “Same with Blaine for me.” He brushes his shoulder playfully against mine before his features darken. “You do remember she’s seeing Blaine, right?”
“What the hell is a, Blaine?”
“My brother.” His features cloud over, dark and haunting. “They graduated last year—they go to Trinity together.” His eyes continue to smolder over me, let me know he still burns for me on the inside. “Laken,” he says it low, like a secret, “I don’t scare easy. But you’ve redefined the things I fear.”
He shifts uncomfortably. A thicket of soot-covered clouds elongate overhead. “Just, please, let me help you.” There’s a desperation in him that I’ve never seen before, a palpable fear layered under his concern. “Don’t tell Fletcher or Jen you’re having problems with your memory.”
“Done,” I say without hesitating. Wes takes up my hand, and we head into Ridley Hall. Time to get our schedules and register for cheer.
Dear God, I really don’t know myself.
“That’s Ms. Paxton,” Wes whispers as we round out a rather lengthy table with an unimaginable number of signup sheets spread out across the span of it. “Otherwise known as Mom.” He blinks a smile. “Well, just to me.”
“We’ve met,” I say, unable to take my eyes off her dark hair, spun tight in a bun. It looks painful, as if her entire face has stretched back an inch just to accommodate the hyper-extended coif. I don’t see one trace of sweet, tender Wes in her. She’s exudes as much affect and warmth as a haunted porcelain doll and about as much depth as one, too.
Ridley Hall looks every bit normal inside. It’s the first building I’ve been in since I’ve arrived where I don’t have the sneaking suspicion a funeral procession is about to spontaneously break out. It looks neither Gothic nor regal with its plain vanilla walls intermittently splotched with posters of friendly faces already campaigning for student government. I spot one of Flynn, offering an ironic smile and two thumbs up that reads, Flynn Masterson for treasurer. I’m not sure I’d trust him with my money. That kiss he gave was greedy. He was more than willing to steal what I wasn’t willing to give.
“Here you are.” Flynn pops up like an apparition.
“I was just looking at your picture.” I jump a little at the sight of him.
“You can stop admiring me from afar because you got the real thing right here, baby.” He wraps an arm around my waist. “Where’s my least favorite sister?”
I dart a look to Wes.
“Tell her I need to see her.” Flynn runs his fingers through his sun-kissed hair. “I got that GPS she wants to borrow.”
“GPS,” I whisper. Sounds like something you’d need if you were about to embark on acres of unchartered land. But why not wait? Why go into a Fem-infested forest without it?
A group of girls move in a pack to our right, and Flynn trots off without so much as a good-bye.
Wes steps over, still drilling Flynn with a vengeful look. “I saw him—kiss you last night.” There’s a quietness in his c
onfession as though he were embarrassed to admit it, or he’s pissed. I’m hoping for the latter.
The trace of a smile twitches on the corners of my lips. It was Wes I was hoping to unimpress with that kiss.
“I’m new. He was just showing me a good time.” I pause, taking in the agony that lingers in his eyes. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” I let it hang out there, see if he’ll take a bite of my shiny poison apple.
“I…” He turns into me with his face just inches from mine and presses his lips together. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He chews on the inside of his cheek trying to hide the all-out grin blooming on his face. “Look, you’re my best friend’s little sister.” He shakes his head just barely. “I like you.” It comes out with heartbreak. “But we should take things slow.”
My heart gives an unnatural thump.
“Slow.” I nod into his decision. “We should go out, get to know one another.” I step into him until I can feel the lust emanating off his skin, the magnetic pull that keeps drawing us together.
“We should go out tonight.” He gives a wicked grin exposing those knife-sharp canines. “I can show you around—see if I can jog your memory.”
“Okay.” I look at him from under my lashes. “I’ll see if I can jog yours.”
He pulls in closer until our noses almost touch. A ripple of heat erupts all over me, and I melt waiting for his lips to graze against mine.
“No, no!” Fletcher appears in a fit of brotherly inspired chaos and plucks Wes back by the shoulder. “I just got through watching Kresley break down like some riled up ball of hormones in front of the entire senior class because some pop tart stole her boyfriend and then I see this?” He looks serious as though Wes and I were actually about to partake in some major infraction.
“You’re right.” Wes exhales, snapping back to reality.
“What?” I’m going to kill Fletch, for real this time. “It’s none of your business who I choose to see.”
“Dude!” Fletch is wild at the thought. “She’s my effing sister.” Fletch pushes Wes hard in the shoulder. “What the hell are you thinking?” His chest puffs out like some moronic rooster.
“We’re still on for later, right?” I look to Wes with a determined gaze.
“Yup,” he says, “as your official O.A. It’s my responsibility to show you around.” He glances back at Fletch. “Relax. I’ll take her for a quick spin.”
“No spinning.” Fletch digs a finger into his chest before walking away. “No freaking spinning, dude.”
“He’s not serious,” I say.
Gone is the playful, flirtatious Wes I had for a moment. He’s been quickly replaced with this serious, contemplative, giving a damn what my moronic brother thinks version.
I’m not sure about this new unimproved rendition of Wesley Parker—the one who insists I didn’t see Casper go into the forest—who tells me the monsters that tried to kill the two of us really side with our so-called faction. The one who insists I’m a descendent of creatures with wings who found the daughters of men enticing. Wesley’s brain has successfully congealed to the not-so-norms of this false new world. My heart wants to believe everything that sails from his lips, but my brain, the memories of who we were, beg otherwise. Wes has been dipped in the tar of deceit, feathered with angel wings of all things. I don’t believe for a minute that Wes knows the truth about anything. But if he doesn’t, who does?
A boy with dark blond hair catches my eye as he moves through the crowd. He looks vaguely familiar, and it evokes something in me as though I were being roused from a dream.
He turns just enough and gives a sideways glance in my direction before disappearing into the tide of flesh.
It’s him.
The boy from the forest.
12
Run
I don’t explain to Wes why the hell I take off into the crowd. Of course, that prompts Wes to assume I’ve undergone yet another brain malfunction, and he takes off after me, catching me by elbow after I snake down a series of crowded halls.
“What was that about?” He looks more surprised than panicked.
“I thought I recognized someone.” I defer from telling him it was the cute guy who saved my life the first day in the forest. Something tells me that won’t help score any points in the win-my-boyfriend-back department.
He glances down at his watch.
“I gotta go. I’ve got practice.” He leans in, says I’ll miss you with his eyes, and my stomach bottoms out like a trapdoor. “See you after dinner? I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Seven.” I bite down a short-lived smile. I shudder a little, still stunned to have seen the boy from the forest. “You know where to find me.”
“Okay, we’ll get together.” His eyes widen when he says it.
“It’s a date,” I counter.
“Laken,” he growls it out with a playful smile, “as an O.A. it’s my duty to see to it that you have the full Ephemeral experience.” He steps in until I can feel his breath on my cheek. “I’d hate for you lose your bearings,” he starts in slow, “I think I should do anything and everything to help you assimilate.”
My entire body explodes with heat.
“I’m pretty sure I won’t get everything on the first go around.” It comes out in puffs. My heart races just being this close to Wes. “I might need you to repeat the effort, time and time again.”
“Sounds like we might need to turn this into something permanent.” There’s a challenge in his voice.
“Something everlasting,” I say.
Just like our love.
Dinner at Austen House is ridiculously opulent. Enormous, lavish chandeliers drip with cut crystal. They glitter a spastic rainbow of color, refracting light into the four corners of the room. I count ten in all, two rows of five on either side of the expansive dining hall. You could host a wedding reception in here, a prom if you wanted. Lavender tablecloths alternate with mint green. Real silverware is set out ready to greet each diner. I hold up the cutlery, so heavy with its beautiful illumination. One spoon alone could have paid for six weeks’ worth of meals back home. We didn’t own any silverware in Cider Plains. The only silver anyone owned was in the form of dental fillings, and as it was, they mined the dead for those.
The buffet looks like a catered event with large chafing dishes filled with buttery mashed potatoes—the red kind with the skin left on, not the brown russets you have to scrape the dirt off that Mom used to buy. A steaming tray of vegetables calls to me. I have never seen carrots or peppers emanate such vibrant shades before, orange like a perfect sunset, an exaggerated bright red I’ve only seen in Poppies. A glossy layer of oil coats them in its warmth. Even though vegetables aren’t very high up on my personal food pyramid, I help myself to a double scoop. At home we ate as much corn as we could stand. I hated picking it out of my teeth afterward.
Dessert is snatched up at the end of the line. The girls in front of me bypass the table without paying too much attention to the amazing spread. But I pause and take the delicacies in—admire the slivered almond torte with the heavy-lacquered finish, the bubbling sugar caramelized over the apple pie. These aren’t your average supermarket confections. These are works of art, the kinds of things you see on TV or in women’s magazines in the recipe section. I scoop up one of each and take off to find a seat.
Austen House seems to hold an even number of seniors, juniors and the like. As I make my way through the center of the dining hall, I’m starting to see a pattern of who thinks I’m the world’s biggest skank for snagging Wes from underneath Kresley, Queen of the Bitch Brigade—this list seems to include, well, just about everyone. Even Jen, my own faux sister, manages to freeze the air between us.
Thankfully, everyone doesn’t include Carter who joins me at a private table buffered with an entire purple expanse of empty seats to our right. She goes on and on about how much she loves Fletcher—creates a heart shape with her fingers when she says his name.
“I’
m totally going to break it off with Jackson.” She takes a breath between bites of her salad. “He’s just one of those guys I’ve latched onto off and on since like utero, you know?”
I nod absentmindedly. I’ve tried three times to add to the conversation, and she simply ran over me with her words.
“I totally like him and all, but he can be a real ass. And he never shows any real interest in me.” Her curls shag out. “He sits around watching TV every chance he gets—hitting a drive-thru is his idea of ‘going out.’”
I don’t think hanging out and watching TV sounds too bad. I’d hit a thousand drive-thru’s with Wes as long as we were there together.
Most of the girls here sit in groups of six or eight, and considering there are only about fifty of us listed as residents, it feels mighty exclusionary to be sitting in a corner with just Carter.
She digs into her chicken cacciatore, plunging us into a strange bout of silence.
“What’s with the supersized banquet room?” Of all of the questions I could have asked.
“You know, parents weekend, ceremonies. Everything’s big at Ephemeral, if you hadn’t noticed.”
My mind drifts back to Asterion’s bronzed genitals.
“I noticed,” I say. “So, are girls going to hate you by association?” I wouldn’t blame Carter for picking up her things and sitting somewhere else, giving me the finger just for good measure.
“Oh, no,” she balks, holding back a laugh, “people are going to hate me for other reasons, like, you know, pulling a Laken.”
“What the hell is pulling a Laken?” I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know, but since it is my personal moniker, I’m partially committed to finishing the conversation.
“You know, how you snatched Wesley away from the Greek Goddess of Love.”
“You want to snatch Wes?” I’m confused.
“Fletcher.” She over annunciates. “I want to snatch Fletcher from Grayson.”