Isle of Night (5 page)

The fog cleared a bit from my mind. “Like a special school?”

“Aye. Like a special school. To train girls.”

“Train them to what?”

“To become women.”

My breath hitched. Oh, God, this was a sex-slave thing. He could give me all the mesmerizing looks and lingering touches in the world, and
never
would I vibe with anything like that.

He rolled his eyes, reading my thoughts. “Not like that. Successful women, with skills and depth.”

He traced his finger down my arm, resting his hand on my thigh. Heat plumed up my leg, coursing through my body. I let out a sigh I hadn't realized I was holding.
Not a girl . . . a woman.
With skills and depth. Did that mean I'd finally found a place where I could really learn? Where I'd meet other girls who liked to learn, too?

Suddenly all things seemed possible. Could I really get on this plane? Could I finally, for once in my life, begin to realize my true self?

Visions cascaded into my head . . . me goofing on campus with the other girls. We'd wear white anoraks with fur hoods and have snowball fights. We'd discuss things like medieval Latin and rap music of the Asian Diaspora. I'd meet Ronan for coffee after class. I wouldn't be so different. I wouldn't have to hold back.

Never again would I have to hold back.

I should've been scared, but not many things frightened me anymore. My father's opened hand careening toward my face no longer scared me. The dead-eyed stares of the other high school kids had stopped scaring me long ago. But being stuck in the same small town for the rest of my life?
That
scared me.

Could I be a real woman? Someone self-determined, who hopped onto private jets headed for islands far, far from home. I wanted to be.

“Okay.” I opened the car door. I stepped onto that tarmac, onto the path of no return. I turned to look at him. Those haunted-forest eyes were intense on me, and I hoped I was making the right choice, because standing alone on the runway, I felt suddenly isolated and alone. I forced a lightness into my voice that I didn't feel. “So, what's this island called?”

“Those who speak the old tongue call it
Eyja nœturinnar
,” he uttered, and a peculiar melancholy sounded in his voice. “The Isle of Night.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I
stood at the rear of his car, watching as he strode to the plane. “Wait,” I called, knocking on the trunk. “My bag?”

“You won't need it where you're going.”

When we were cozy in his car, with his hands and eyes wrapping warm reassurance around me, I was champing at the bit to go. But now, standing in the glare of the Florida sun, uncertainty crept in.

“But . . . my stuff.” My mom's picture. My ginormous dictionary. My Converse and my iPod. I needed to keep some reminder of who my mother was. Of who I was.

“You'll be issued new
stuff
,” he said dryly.

I knew a sharp pang of loss. There were likely dictionaries where I was headed. And Converse wouldn't do well in snow. But that picture was all I had left of my mom.

And music? Music had become my survival. It's what got me through. No Led Zeppelin, no cheesy French pop, no Death Cab for Cutie.
Not happening.
“But my iPod—”

“Isn't allowed on the island,” he finished for me.

“But—” My gaze shifted from Ronan to the plane. I shaded my eyes against the glare of sunlight on smooth metal. The jet door opened, and though the interior was dim, I caught a glimpse of a catwalk-worthy attendant floating past, bearing a tray of drinks.

I'd never stood this close to such luxury. I stepped closer, and a stuffed leather seat came into view. I craned my chin up for a better look. The interior looked cool and plush, all beige carpet and tan leather. Luxurious, and a bit daunting.

My eyes went back to Ronan. His gaze was waiting for me, and that same warmth rippled along my skin. My response to him was immediate, like he'd imprinted me, my body primed for him, and I knew I'd follow him wherever he led.

I tore my eyes away, back to the trunk. I wasn't leaving without the picture of my mom. And as long as I was going to smuggle a photo on board, why not my iPod, too? If they discovered it, what was the worst they could do to me? I'd endured my
father
for seventeen years.

“Just a sec,” I called, dashing back to the car. I met his suspicious look with a shrug and poised my hand expectantly over the trunk. I tried to look as casual as possible. “My hoodie. I hate air-conditioning.”

His eyes hardened and I felt a shot of panic, but then Ronan popped the trunk using the remote on his key chain. It made a little vacuum-suck sound and the lid slowly elevated. Though he remained standing at the front of the car, my heart was pounding in my chest.

Forcing myself to look neither too relieved nor too guilty, I dug through my duffel, snagging my iPod and the picture. I hastily shoved the photo out through the back of its cheap cardboard frame, cracking the glass in the process. Hands shaking, I grabbed my tan velour hoodie and crammed everything in the pocket. The photo would get rumpled, but the iPod was awkward enough—I couldn't risk smuggling a cheapo Wal-Mart picture frame, too.

I shut the trunk, slamming it a little harder than necessary in my nervousness.
Success.
And what Ronan didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

I jogged to the plane, joining him on the sleek metal stairs. He took my hand to steady me. For a guy in jeans, he was quite dashing, quite gallant.

Cool air washed down to us from the open hatch. I felt on the brink of a grand, worldly adventure. It was the first step toward reinventing myself.

It would be exciting, this starting over. I'd discover a true me lingering down deep. Maybe there really would be a fox-fur anorak waiting for me on this island. I'd be like Nicole Kidman in that crazy snow-bear movie, where she glided around wearing ivory gloves and a fur stole. I'd be like porcelain. I'd be a
woman
.

The kind of woman worthy of a mysterious man. Worthy of Ronan. I'd quote all the Proust he wanted. In the original French. He'd want me.

Following him up, I couldn't resist stealing a glimpse of his posterior. Dark blue denim, not too clingy, not too loose, and tight muscle flexing beneath. A strange feeling shimmered in my belly.

I stepped through the door. Through the portal to my fabulous new world. I let my eyes adjust.

And then my heart fell.

Two other girls were already on board. Two
gorgeous
girls.

I forced myself to breathe. And I forced myself not to look at Ronan, even though I felt that green-eyed stare boring through me.

I scanned down the aisle—quickly assessing the girls, the cabin, the situation—without seeming to stare. There were eight seats total, and they were all the same mushy, tan leather, like really pricey versions of my father's Barcalounger. They were arranged into two sets of four, with pairs of seats facing each other.

The girls sat side by side at the rear of the cabin. Was I expected to join them? To sit facing them, brushing knees, like we might giggle and gossip the trip away?

I tried to have an open mind. After all, Ronan had said the girls were like me. I assumed he meant they were geniuses. I swallowed hard. Why'd they have to be such
hot
geniuses?

I took a hesitant step forward, pretending bored disinterest in my seat selection, as if I rode around on private jets every day. But really, it just gave me an opportunity to weigh these teenage interloper hotties.

One looked like a Playboy Bunny in training, with a tight, low-cut designer shirt that made the most of her sizable assets. My seventeenth birthday had come and gone, and I was
still
waiting for
my
assets to make themselves known.

Bunny Girl had large, round, flawlessly made-up eyes to go with her other large, rounded goods. Her hair fell in long, perfect waves the color of maple syrup. She was glaring at me with the same look the Yatch liked to use. My stomach clenched into a knot.

I flicked my eyes to the other girl, hoping a friendly face might greet me. Hope fled, and the knot in my belly became a nauseating rock of ice.

Girl Number Two was perhaps the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen, with skin the color of milky coffee and black hair falling in tight spirals to just above her shoulders. Two tiny teardrops were tattooed beneath one eerily light, almondshaped eye.

“
You're
what we've been waiting for?” Almond Eyes spoke in a lush, husky accent. Her vowels were thick and rounded.
Cuban,
I thought.

I considered fleeing—nodding a quick and apologetic
never mind
to Ronan and backing out of there. I
needed
to flee. Ronan had mesmerized me with those eyes and that touch, but these girls shattered whatever magic it was that'd seduced me on board.

I took a step backward. “I'm sorry. I think I need—”

The door sealed shut with an elegant
shush
. Sealed me in.

“Hey, Charity Case.” The other girl's voice was sharply feminine—like a cheerleader who'd lost all patience. “Move it, so we can get out of here.”

I gave her a blank look, parsing her words.
Charity Case?

Raising a sculpted brow, she scowled at my top.

Oh.
The shirt. It wasn't exactly used,
per se
. It was real vintage. A Velvet Underground concert tee, to be precise. It had little cap sleeves, and I liked to think it was something Kristen Stewart might wear. I fought the urge to tug at it. “Sure thing . . . Bunny,” I muttered, thinking as long as we were using nicknames.

“Just here,” Ronan said, coming to my rescue. His presence comforted me, but not enough, not like before. Because now mingled with that reassurance was the nagging sense of betrayal.

He motioned to the front bank of seats, and I followed him like a robot, sitting with my back to the shark tank in the rear of the plane. I wedged my hoodie under my leg. It was a Juicy knockoff, and I braced for the scorn I was sure
that
would elicit.

I ran my finger along the hard edge of the iPod hidden in the pocket. I'd need to figure out how to stash the thing more securely without it slipping out and clattering to the floor. In my jeans, maybe.

Ronan claimed the seat next to mine, and I wasn't sure if my jangly feeling was relief or anger. The girls' disdain radiated at my back. I felt duped. And, well, jealous.

“I have no money, you know.” I spoke to him in a low hiss. I would
not
let those girls overhear our conversation. “Like, to pay? Whatever this special school is you're taking me to, I can't afford tuition.”

The gorgeous, uniformed attendant buckled herself into her jump seat. She gave him a mysterious nod. It felt like a stab in the back, and my cheeks blazed with irrational embarrassment.

He buckled his seat belt. Defiant, I didn't touch mine. I contemplated hopping up and escaping through the emergency exit.

Ronan reached across and buckled me in. The hot sweep of his fingers on my thighs made my breath catch. Kept me glued to my seat.

“We know you have no money,” he said simply.

“We?” I asked, my voice cracking.

The overhead lights flicked off, then on, then off again as the plane hummed to life.

I fought not to panic. What had I expected, getting into a zillion-dollar private jet with a stranger? “Who's the
we
?” I repeated.

The plane eased forward. I looked out the window, watching the tarmac begin to roll beneath us.

He answered only, “Think of it as a scholarship.”

We picked up speed, and I had to flick my eyes to follow the horizon whooshing by in the distance. Horror bloomed, a sickening pit in my belly. There was no going back.

I stared at Ronan's profile. I shouldn't have let him convince me to come on board. Why had I listened? I wasn't naive, not by a long shot. Nor was I a girly girl, falling for whichever cute guy looked my way. What was it about him? What had I been thinking?

I studied him. He was a guy's guy, with a rugged, dimpled chin. A faint haze of dark stubble dusted his jaw. He'd convinced me with those stares, those touches. I willed him to look at me, to make me feel better again.

Doubts seized me. On the surface, he was out of my league. What would he want with me? I was smart, but lots of people were. I skimmed my eyes down, taking in my chipped purple nails and faded jeans. I knew guys went for blond hair, but there had to be more to it than that.

I clenched my hands, forcing myself to think. “Had you tracked me down
before
we met at the registrar's?” I'd fantasized he'd simply seen me and swooned. But this scenario—this special school, this
scholarship
, how he knew my name before I told him—implied otherwise. “So it's not that you saw me in the registrar's office and, I don't know, just . . . knew?”