Sam I Am (2 page)

Now, the silence in the hall stretched and she began to feel the guilty prodding of time at her back. She needed to get to class. But she hated third period. It was a newly required part of their curriculum – a health class – taught by the gym teacher, who was a meat head in the worst kind of way. And none of her friends were in that class with her.

“Hey Logan.”

Logan jumped and spun around at the sound of the deep voice behind her. She barely managed to keep down the yelp of surprise that threatened her lips, but the wide eyes and quickened pulse, she was helpless to stop.

Dominic Maldovan smiled guiltily down at her. “Sorry,” he chuckled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Logan swallowed hard, trying to get past the lump in her throat, but it was difficult; her mouth had gone dry.

“No, you – you didn’t –” Logan croaked on her words and blushed furiously. She put her hand to her chest and turned her face away, trying to clear her voice.
Dominic Maldovan is talking to me,
she thought.
He’s alone with me, here in the hall, and he’s talking to me!

She could feel Dominic smiling beside her. It was wholly unnerving.

“You didn’t scare me,” she finally finished. She was completely unconvincing.

“Okay,” Dominic grinned. “I noticed you weren’t in class today.”

You noticed?
Logan thought feverishly.
He’s talking to me and he noticed I wasn’t in class?
“I… I was late getting here this morning. Family issues,” she explained softly. She had no idea why she was explaining this to him. Most of her couldn’t really believe that she was alone, in the hall, talking to Maldovan in the first place.

I must be dreaming,
she decided.
I’ve had dreams like this before, after all.

“Oh? Is everything okay?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“Everything’s fine,” she lied.

Dominic gazed steadily down at her.
He’s seeing me
, Logan thought.
He’s really seeing me.

“I gotta get back to class,” he finally said, pulling the hall pass out of his back pocket and giving it a little wave in the air before shoving it back in. “Take it easy, Logan.” He nodded at her once, in that respectful, rocker-like way he always did, and then he stepped around her and headed down the long length of the hall.

Logan watched him round the corner. And then she groaned defeatedly and slumped against her shut locker.
Way to blow it, Logan,
she thought.

Dominic rounded the corner and ducked into the men’s restroom. Once inside, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Smooth, Dom. Very, very smooth.

Moron.

He mentally kicked himself with steel-toed boots, standing there, cursing softly, until several minutes had passed and he felt a bit better.

How many years had passed? How many chances had he lost? What, exactly, was he afraid of?

She’ll turn you down, man. She’s a fucking genius. She’s creative, she’s gorgeous, she’s quiet…. You’re out of her league.

It would seem Dominic wasn’t quite done kicking himself yet after all. A plethora of unpleasant thoughts chased each other through his head. Another opportunity had come, serendipitous and perfect, and he’d let it slip through his fingers.

All because he was afraid of rejection. Just like every other sorry-ass high school kid in existence.

It hurt all the more because this was their final year together. They were seniors, with less than half a term left, and he wasn’t stupid. He knew that once Logan Wright graduated and rid herself of this sorry excuse for a town, she would be hit on by every college kid she crossed paths with. And maybe one of them would be in her league, and probably he would show her how special she was and she would smile at him.

Dominic’s hands fisted at his sides and his teeth ground together. Now all he could imagine was Logan Wright with another guy; he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

Cool it, Dom. Get control of yourself.
He opened his eyes and strode to the sinks against one wall. All of the mirrors had been shattered long ago, and most of the faucets were broken. But one of the four still worked. He turned it on and caught the cold water in his hands, splashing it over his face.

A few minutes later, he dried off and left the bathroom to head back to class. He felt a little better.

He’d come to a decision.

Time was not on his side. And where Logan was concerned, he wasn’t going to waste any more of it.

Chapter Two

It was half-way through the passing period between sixth and seventh period when Logan’s cell phone beeped with a text notice. She glanced down at the LCD screen and felt the blood drain from her face.

It was her mother. Her mother never bothered her at school unless something bad had happened. Again.

Katelyn had already asked her over for some studying before Logan had to head to work. Logan had gratefully accepted the invitation. Anything to get out of the insane asylum.

But as she dialed the call back number and lifted her phone to her ear, her heart sank. She knew it wouldn’t be happening. It almost never did.

“It’s me, mom.”

She listened, not even bothering to allow emotion to register on her features. She simply absorbed the information her mother almost mechanically gave her. Taylor had woken up disoriented from the Ativan. He’d been scared… he’d attacked Kayla. She was okay. But her shoulder was sprained and she was getting stitches in her scalp.

“Okay.” Logan replied to a question her mother asked. “What room?” Her voice sounded far off, even to her own ears.

No one around her paid her any attention. The warning bell for seventh period sounded and Logan blocked out the sound. In a few seconds, she hung up and took her back pack out of her locker. She absent-mindedly picked a few of her text books from the stack and shoved them into her bag.

Then she threw the bag over her shoulder and left the school to head for the hospital.

Meagan shrank beneath the cowl of her black cloak as the wind picked up a few dried-paper leaves and tossed them into the air. She looked around nervously.

She was alone in the graveyard.

She found a place beneath the shelter of an old oak and then knelt, wracking her brain, trying desperately to remember the words the Grove leader had warned her to memorize. She’d thought she’d had them down. She really did. She hadn’t taken this lightly!

But then she’d managed to come down with some sort of head cold and she felt fuzzy and indistinct and the words to the spell swam in disorder in her befuddled head and….
Shit!
She swore internally.
Fuck and damn!
she swore again. Now, the spell was a jumbled mess in her head. And she couldn’t straighten it out.

Not to save my life
, she thought, weakly.
I feel like shit.

Nevertheless, she was running out of time.

The ceremony had to be performed tonight. Before midnight. It was October 1
^st
. The moon was full. And it was the first moon of a blue pair – the second would come on the 31
^st
. This was vital.

God damn it all to Hell!
She yanked the cloak off of her shoulders with an angry flourish and let it fall to the cemetery floor. Then she sneezed. It sent a horribly delicious chill throughout her entire body.
Oh crap
, she thought. There was no getting out of this. She didn’t have a choice. It was now or never. The Lord of the Dead needed to be kept where he was. If she didn’t do this right….

October was not like the other months. People didn’t realize it, either. Well,
some
did, but to them, it was nothing more than a feeling. An inkling. A scent on the wind.

The truth was that October was really one giant,
massive,
door. And it was always waiting to be opened. It was waiting to swing wide on an unsuspecting world.

Meagan needed to keep that door shut.

Here goes everything
, she thought. And then she began to chant.

* * * *

“You’re late, sweetheart.”

“Fuck off, Randy. I got here when I could.” Logan pulled off her jacket and hung it on the hook, keeping her head down as she pulled the apron off of the hook beside it and draped it over her neck.

But Randy wasn’t a stupid man. Mean, yes. Stupid, not exactly. “You’ve been crying again, haven’t you?”

“No.”

He gave a short, derisive snort and shook his head. Logan glanced up at him, knowing it was useless to try to hide the redness in her amber eyes.

“Sweetheart, you’re too sensitive. Everyone has family problems. You need to stop letting yours interfere with your work.” He nodded, at once pleased with his little quip of wise advice.

Logan stiffened and remained quiet. She occupied herself with pretending to review the evening’s order chart.

Randy went on, regardless. “Get here on time tomorrow night.” He took a pan of pastries to the door that led to the display counter, his wrist watch glittering beneath the kitchen lights. He paused and looked her over, his dark eyes taking on a nasty gleam. “Or I’ll sign you up for fewer hours.” Then he walked through the door, leaving Logan alone.

At once, she set down the chart and closed her eyes.
Maybe he’s right
, she thought, bitterly.
He’s an asshole, but
I
am
too sensitive. It’s just me. Other people have it worse. They have bruises – I don’t.
They
can handle it just fine.

Why can’t I?

* * * *

There was no substance. Nothing to hold on to. He was free, but he felt as if he would float away from the earth, fall off of it, and get lost in the blackness of space.

He needed something. Something tangible to become – to hold on to.

There was an old silver-blue car just ahead. He didn’t know why, but he was drawn to it. It sat alone in the parking lot, its scratches and dents highlighted by the harsh brilliance of the parking lot lights.

He floated toward it. And then he floated
through
it, into the front end.

A notebook sat in the passenger seat. It seemed to glow with welcome. He willed it open and read….

* * * *

It always felt to Logan as if the dramatic nature of a day ought to dictate how the night proceeded after it. The night should be a time of mourning for anything that had been suffered while the sun was up. But it didn’t work that way, and despite the events of the last few hours, the night’s work at the pastry shop went as it always did.

Of course, Logan’s mind wandered from time to time. As usual, her teenage brain whirled around two basic and very different things. One part of her reviewed the day’s events in vivid, traumatic detail.

While the other half of her feverishly created another world.

Tonight’s world had vampires in it. They were gorgeous, tall, smooth-talking vampires. And they had a king… with blonde hair and blue eyes and a shit-load of money. The king wanted to make her their queen. She would pretend to put up a fight at first, of course. But, eventually, she would give in. And let him turn her.

Logan closed her eyes as she imagined the climactic scene. The sex would be mind-blowing. He would take her as if his hunger for her were insatiable. As if his thirst for her were unquenchable. He would be a force of fury and need and love, and as he came within her, he would sink his fangs into her throat.

Yes
, she thought. He would drink her in. And then he would make
her
drink of
him
. And she would be invincible. She
liked
that idea. Immortality. An end to pain and weakness. She could take out
anyone
as a vampire.

In that world, there were no families. No parents and no brothers and there was no nausea or cramping and no swearing and there were no holes in the walls….

By the time the shop closed down for the night, Logan yearned whole-heartedly for the notebook she had left in the passenger seat of her parents’ car. It was a five-subject spiral notebook. Each section held a different story. They were stories she’d dreamed up and penned when she had desperately needed to escape this world.

And enter another.

She longed for that notebook now like a man without legs must long to walk. That – and the ball-point pen she’d left in the cup holder.

“Your turn with the trash, Wright,” Randy called to her over his shoulder as he locked the front door and then turned to make his way to the back of the shop. Logan didn’t respond. She already knew it was her turn. She never forgot to take out the trash. Or sweep up or mop or clean the bathroom.

He only reminded her – again and again – because he knew it bothered her that she was never allowed to do these things on her own. He liked having that bit of control over her. He liked having
any
control over her.

“And don’t forget what I said, sweetheart. You wanna keep working here, you’ll get here on time tomorrow night.”

That’s it
, she thought. The day’s adrenaline rush had been simmering, left there in the bottom of her conscious, for just such a moment. “You do realize that I’m a volunteer here, right?” she countered, one hand on her hip bone, the other wrapped around the top of a full garbage bag.

He shoved his keys into his jeans pocket and cocked his head to one side. His eyes glittered darkly. “Oh I know, sweetheart.” He took a step toward her, then, and Logan’s stomach began to churn once more.

“But where would you go, little
Luka
, if you didn’t have this
‘job’
of yours to come to every night? You think I don’t know how badly you want out of that house of yours?”

Logan swallowed. She was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was a young woman, and that she was alone in an otherwise empty building on a now-deserted street - with a young man.

Deflect
, she thought frantically.

She was good at that. She had had
so
much practice….

“Stuff it, Randy. I’m tired and my period is killing me and right now I’m going to go to that home I apparently hate so much and I’m going to bed.” She brushed past him, allowing her words to sink in, and waited to see if he would say or try anything else.

When she made it all the way to the back door, trash in hand, without him stopping her, she knew it had worked. The bastard would think she was on the rag. Untouchable. Irritable. How had he put it last week? “A sensitive little bitch with a wild imagination and a body she didn’t deserve.”

Asshole.

Behind her, she finally heard the keys rattle in the back door and knew that Randy was locking up the shop. He was the assistant manager. The manager and owner of the pastry store was a woman in her early seventies who simply loved to cook and had absolutely no idea that the people she hired could be anything other than what they appeared to be.

She loved Randy like a son. It might have had something to do with the fact that her own son had died fifty years ago of leukemia. It might also have been that Randy was very charismatic when he wanted to be. But whatever it was, Mrs. Witherspoon trusted Randy Hodges with her store, her money, and her other employees. Even the volunteer ones.

Like Logan.

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart,” Randy called out, pausing for a moment beneath the fluorescent lamp that hung above the awning of the back door. “Try to be in a friendlier mood, eh?”

He winked at her and Logan’s teeth began to grind. She tossed the bag into the dumpster and watched him, warily, as he made his way down the alley between the pastry shop and the bank next door.

And then Logan took a deep breath.

It was the first one she’d been able to take all day. She finally felt alone. She loved being alone. This, right now, was her favorite time of the day.

Night.

It was at this time, when she no longer had work to do and no longer had to talk to anyone and she didn’t yet have to be home, that gave her the strength to live.

She didn’t have to go home right away. No. Not for hours if she didn’t want to. She could always tell her parents that she had to drop off leftover food at the shelter. She could tell them that there was a huge mess to clean up or a kid’s party to bake for – or hell, even a kitchen fire. They would believe anything. It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the time. And being alone.

And the notebook in the car that held all of her stories – her dreams. Her deepest, most urgent wishes and desires.

She felt like adding to them tonight. With a smile the likes of which the outside world never, ever caught on her lovely face, Logan turned back toward her parents’ car and dug the key out of the front pocket of her jeans.

* * * *

They were her words
, he thought, as he watched the young woman move toward the car that held the notebook he had read.
They were her words that gave me form.

Function. Purpose.

She was a bard, a story teller. Her kind were druids in their own right, and had been held sacred by his people for thousands upon thousands of years.

It was from the characters she had created, in the words scripted by her hand, that he had drawn his own physical form. The men she wrote of were an amalgamation of wondrous beings, so unlike the humans that he had known for an eternity, so unlike the animals that flocked to his door by the thousands.