Descendant (5 page)

I
  don’t see Kye much for the next few weeks. I’ve never even talked to the guy and my stomach ties in knots at the simple thought of his ocean-blue eyes. It makes no sense. But then, very little in my life actually makes sense these days.

I know he comes to school—just not to drama class. We pass each other in the hall occasionally, and I feel his presence like a palpable thing. He ignores me, so I return the favor, bothered by the fact that he feels so familiar and I can’t figure out why.

Eating lunch with Rose and Jen becomes a daily habit. Rose’s cheerful yellow aura mixes with Jen’s purplish-blue to form a calming deep green. It’s no wonder they’re friends—they bring each other balance. Interesting things happen when they’re around, and I look forward to Rose’s nonstop chatter. The two of them are relentless when discussing their plans for the trip. They insist I come, and work devilishly to talk me into it.

Then there’s Eric, who is relentless in a different way.

“I’ll bet you a dollar I can make you fall in love with me by the end of the month.” He says when he catches up with me after drama and walks with me to history.

“Is that all my love is worth?” I lick my lips, wondering what makes the air in Jackson taste metallic and why I shiver every time Eric is around.

“Fine then, twenty dollars.”

I dig through my bag, looking for gum, and ignore the instinct to jump away when Eric’s cool arm brushes mine. “It doesn’t seem fair to take money I’ve done nothing to earn.” I back up, putting distance between us on the premise of offering him a piece of gum. “But I’ve never been a girl to pass up easy money, either.”

“Oh, you’ll earn it. Anyway, I have no intention of letting you win. I’m going to start by escorting you to the party this weekend.”

My memory flashes to an intense gaze shared across a stage.
What’s wrong with me?
Why do I feel like going out with Eric is cheating? “Party?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah. Well, it isn’t officially hosted by the school, technically. It’s in Yellowstone.”

Oh no, not him too. “Did Rose put you up to this?”

He looks confused. “What?”

“Never mind.” I sigh. It’s not fair for me to pretend I like him. “Look, I was joking. I can’t go out with you, and I’m not letting you make all kinds of effort just to win a bet. Besides, I’m not going to Yellowstone.”

His shoulders slump. “You have so little faith in my abilities. It’s discouraging.”

I stop in front of my locker and dial the combination. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not into the whole teenagers falling in love thing. Even if I was, I never stay put long enough for it to happen. I’m a waste of your time.”

Eric leans on the locker next to mine, his head cocked to the side. “How long have we known each other?”

“Three weeks.” I retrieve my history book and slam the locker shut.

“Three weeks,” he repeats, steering me in the direction of our classroom. “And I’ve seen you spend time with two people. Rose and Jen. Do you not know how many guys in this school are dying to ask you out?”

Obviously not Kye.
I snort.
Stupid that I even care.
“You’re such a liar. You’re the only guy who’s actually spoken more than one sentence to me since I moved here. I might as well be invisible.”

Now it’s his turn to snort. “Abby! You’re anything but invisible.”

“Whatever. It’s not like I fit in.” I stop to sip from the water fountain, hoping it’ll ease the almost constant dry burn in my throat.

“The problem is that you’re so quiet you seem almost standoffish, untouchable. I thought you were a snob at first. Do you realize I tried to talk to you three times before you actually responded?”

“You did not.”

“Yeah, Abby, I did. But you were busy observing ... other people.”

Have I really stared that much? Crap.
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I turn to him, my heart beating a little harder. The idea of upsetting Eric makes me shiver harder. “It’s not like ... I didn’t mean ...”

“It’s okay, Abby.” He rests his hand on my arm. “I know you aren’t a snob. You’re a little on the shy side, a lot on the nervous side.” He moves closer. “Completely defensive and absolutely as untouchable as everyone thinks.”

I shrug away from him again. “I am not. Stop saying that.”

“Honey, look—”

“Don’t call me honey, Eric.” The burn in my throat moves into my eyes and sinuses. “I’m not your honey. And I don’t want to be your girlfriend, either.”

“See.” His body blocks my way into class. “That’s exactly what I mean. You want to be left alone, and you make sure everyone within a hundred miles knows it.”

“So?”

“So, nothing. I want to know why. You’re not the cold person you want people to think you are. What would be so bad about going with me to a party? I’m not going to attack you or anything.” I turn away, my stomach churning with an unwelcome yet familiar sensation. Before I take a step, he wraps his arms around my waist from behind, and his cool breath is in my ear. “At least, not yet.”

He’s joking and I know it, but my heart hammers. I don’t want him to touch me.
I don’t want him to touch me.
My throat burns like it’s coated with hot metal and I’m overcome with an ancient, primal terror I know I’ve felt before, though I have no idea when. I can’t see Eric’s face since he’s behind me, but I See him. In another place and time. A rakish grin slashes his features, and his hair is at least two inches longer.

Drawing in a deep breath, I try to shove the vision away, but only manage to trigger my more recent memory of Gram as she lay on the
floor, bleeding. Dying. The blood drains from my face. Pain spasms in my chest. There isn’t enough air in the building.

Memories flash like strobe lights.

My father kisses me goodbye.

A pair of amber eyes stares from the back of a dark theater.

I run up the stairs to find Gram lying on the floor, taking her last breaths.

Violet eyes, watching, waiting, ready to strike.

A circle of Healing power breaking into a million tiny pieces and scattering around the kitchen.

Eric’s touch feels very, very wrong.

“Hey.” Eric spins me around to face him. “Abby? Are you okay?”

I wheeze in and out. In. Out. Close my eyes. Concentrate on getting oxygen to my brain.

“Abby? Talk to me. Please. What did I say?”

I open my eyes. The room moves in circles and black spots float in the air. The breathing thing isn’t going to work. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor. Eric says my name over and over again. I ignore him.

Someone else says, “Let’s get her to the nurse.”

I push away the hands on my shoulders. “I think ... I need—”

“What, Abby? What do you need?” Eric asks.

I want to fight him, push him away. Hurt him. I don’t know why. “I need to find the boy.” I mumble. Then the world goes black.

I
  wake up in the nurse’s office, where she explains that I’ve had a panic attack and my mother is coming to take me home. Someday I hope I’m able to laugh about the sheer mortification I’m experiencing, but that day is not today.

Eric is in the office with us, which makes me angry. I don’t want him here. The nurse must sense this because she kicks him out, sending him to class. As he leaves, I can hear him telling someone, or everyone, that I fainted.

Mom takes me home, and after a minor amount of fussing and a short lecture about me and stress and what could be the cause of the problem, she leaves me alone and finally goes back to work. I change into lounge pants and a T-shirt and curl up on the sofa to watch TV with Erda.

My vision blurs beneath my heavy eyelids. In a minute, I’ll go take a tincture of willow bark for the headache that’s been building in my forehead all day. Right now, I can’t move, can’t feel my arms or legs or anything but the pounding in my head as I watch the vision unfold, like a movie on a screen.

A
small woman with blue-green eyes smoothes her hair and straightens her skirt before gliding down the stairs to rejoin her son’s
wedding party. As she descends, she catches the eye of the captain of her Warrior Guards and murmurs his name, “Rhys.” His eyebrows rise in appreciation.

The laces on her silver-trimmed gown are pulled tight, making breathing difficult. She hides her struggle by tossing loose strands of golden curls over her shoulder and patting the pile of them atop her head. The emeralds at her throat sparkle in the bright light of thousands of candles. She picks up her skirts and cuts through the dance floor. The crowd parts, and she glides to the empty throne next to the king. Rhys stands just behind and to her right, acting as bodyguard.

“Damon,” she says to her husband. “Have you seen Theron and his new bride?”

The king chuckles wickedly. “Of course not, my dear Isleen. Our son is too smart to waste his wedding night socializing with commoners and snobs.”

“Well, where is he then?” She perches on her throne.

“Where do you think, darling? I imagine Theron and Raina have already given great efforts toward the creation of an heir.”

A blush creeps across Isleen’s cheeks. “Someone should rouse them every so often. After all, this is their party.”

Damon motions to Rhys. “Captain, if you had the choice between spending the evening in the privacy of your bedchamber with your new bride or rubbing elbows with a ballroom full of courtiers, which would you choose?”

Rhys smiles, avoiding the queen’s gaze. “Privacy, Your Majesty. Of course.”

“He could at least show his face every few hours or so.” Isleen leans against the throne as far as her full dress will allow. “I grow weary of making his excuses.”

“Shall we send everyone away?” Damon sips from a silver goblet to hide his smile.

“Not yet.” Isleen turns to Rhys. “Captain, fetch Theron. Inform him that I shall retire soon and expect his goodnight wishes immediately.”

Damon snorts. “Surely you do not mean to interrupt the boy?”

“Damon! The Prince has been raised to respect his mother.”

Rhys bites back a smile.

“Shall I bring him here or have him meet you at your chambers?”

The smile Isleen turns on her bodyguard is intimate. “My chambers will be fine. Thank you, Captain.”

Rhys doesn’t smile, but his expression betrays a hint of adoration as he bows. “Anything for you, Majesty.”

T
he buzzing doorbell startles me awake. Was I really asleep? It’s late afternoon, nearly dinnertime. None of my visions has ever lasted so long, and they usually involve a blue-eyed boy. Maybe it was a dream.

Erda barks as I trip to the door, stub my toe on the entry table, and bang my elbow against the wall. On the stoop, Rose and Jen are bundled in heavy coats and snow boots. Jen’s eyes are hidden behind a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, which she shoves in her hair as she follows Rose in from the blinding sunshine.

Rose wastes no time getting to the point. “Did you really faint in the hall?”

I pull my fingers through my tangled nest of hair with a groan. “I guess the whole school knows by now.” Especially since Rose has—no doubt—spread the whole embellished story through the grapevine.

Jen says, “You’re under way too much stress. You probably need a break.”

“She definitely needs a break. A sleepover of epic proportions.” Rose shoves past me and into the living room. She drops her coat on the floor and plops in the recliner, reaching out to scratch Erda’s head. “You’re coming with us on this trip. No more arguing.”

“Make yourself at home.” Shaking my head, I close the door. I haven’t argued so much as flat-out told them no—no fewer than twelve times. And the three of us have only been hanging out for a few weeks. I like them—both of them—but I have no idea why they’re trying so hard or why they care if I go to Yellowstone. It’s not like they have a shortage of friends, and I haven’t exactly been Miss-Abby-sunshine-full-of-cheer since my arrival. “Remind me when you’re going?”

“Duh. After school tomorrow. Spring break kick-off.” Jen folds
her coat over her arm and sits on the end of the sofa. It has gotten a bit warm in here since they arrived. “Haven’t you been listening to anything we’ve told you?”

“Come on, Abby. It’ll be wicked fun. Epic.” Rose slides off her boots and crosses her ankles on the coffee table. “If we can scrape enough money together, we might even be able to rent snowmobiles and soar through the back country or something equally entertaining.”

Since they both look comfortable, I decide to make an attempt at hospitality. “Do you want hot chocolate or something?”

“Marshmallows?” Rose asks.

“Of course.” I start toward the kitchen. “Cookies?”

“Sure,” Jen says.

When I come back with three cups of mint-flavored hot chocolate and four cranberry oatmeal cookies, Erda is writhing in ecstasy while Rose rubs her belly. “She’s going to expect that every time she sees you now,” I warn.

“I don’t mind.” Rose keeps rubbing. “She’s a sweet dog who deserves to be treated like royalty. Don’t you, Erda?” Erda groans in response, and I try not to feel betrayed.