by Tamar Sloan
Prophecy Awakened
Book 1 Prime Prophecy Series
Tamar Sloan
Copyright © 2018 by Tamar Sloan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To Sean, Jesse and Connor.
You teach me the power of connection every day.
Award-Winning Title
Winner of the Romance Writers of Australia
First Kiss Award 2016
Contents
1. Eden
2. Noah
3. Eden
4. Noah
5. Eden
6. Noah
7. Eden
8. Noah
9. Eden
10. Noah
11. Eden
12. Noah
13. Eden
14. Noah
15. Eden
16. Noah
17. Eden
18. Noah
19. Eden
20. Noah
21. Eden
22. Noah
23. Eden
24. Noah
25. Eden
26. Noah
27. Eden
28. Noah
29. Eden
30. Noah
31. Eden
32. Noah
33. Eden
34. Noah
35. Eden
36. Noah
37. Eden
38. Noah
Prophecy Accepted
I’d Love to Connect!
Chapter 1: Noah
About the Author
Also by Tamar Sloan
1
Eden
Finish it and run.
That’s all I need to do.
Finish it and run. Seems easy, fairly straightforward. I pull in a breath, needing some calm, but it doesn’t work. Anxiety is still cartwheeling in my stomach.
It’ll be just like the others. The nervousness spikes, growing, amplifying, and I realize that’s not what I need to be thinking right now.
Standing alone as students mill about in groups, some chatting, the odd one laughing, others glancing, I shut the metal door of my locker with an unavoidable clang, wishing I’d finally figured out how to be invisible. The locker, the looks, are just like Boston High, and Chicago High, and Pittsburgh before that.
The cartwheeling sensation grows to Ferris wheel proportions. Please don’t let it be like some of the others.
I clench every muscle I can find, clamping down on the fear like I have every other time. If I don’t get this under control, I’m going to run out the wooden door I came in only a few moments ago. The last time I did that I was eight, and my mother was so annoyed, she actually grabbed my hand when bringing me back in. I’d been so surprised by the sensation, she’d dragged me right back in before I realized what was happening.
Thank goodness she didn’t come to this one.
Which straight away makes Jacksonville High different. I’m glad she decided seventeen is old enough to do this alone. I glance around, managing to avoid any risk of eye contact with the students moving up and down the hall. Actually, Jacksonville High is pretty different to the multi-story monsters that I’ve called schools. I doubt it has a second floor to anything; one needs a school population above four hundred to justify stairs to anywhere.
But most importantly, it’s the last one. The last move. The last school. The road is clear; the dream that’s sustained me is within reach—finish what’s left of my senior year and escape to college. All I need to do is keep my head down and fly under the radar for a few short months. Please, please let that happen at this school.
I stare at the piece of paper in my hand, conscious of lockers banging, the hallway emptying of sneakered feet. The smooth, white slip is supposed to enlighten me on where to go next, but it appears someone with a sense of humor has given me a timetable written in hieroglyphics.
“Hi!” a cheerful voice interrupts my reverie. I glance up from the blurry slip.
A petite girl with deep red hair, falling in stylish waves around her hazel eyes, stands in front of me. My hand clenches around my timetable; little people always make me feel like Godzilla. She’s wearing tight jeans, a cute grey cardigan over a matching top, and a hint of mischief in her wide smile.
I glance over my shoulder, confused as to whom this bright, pretty girl is speaking to.
“Yes you, silly! You’re the new girl, aren’t you? Well, of course you are. There’s no such thing as an unknown face in Jacksonville, now is there? Do you need a hand with your timetable? Nobody figures those things out on their own, but still, once you get the hang of it, you’ll be all over it like hair on a gorilla.”
I pause for a moment, considering whether there was a question that I actually needed to answer in that one-sided conversation, although I’ve discerned she’s definitely speaking to me.
I shift my weight to my left foot, casually creating a little more distance between us. “Ummm, I think I'm getting the hang of it.”
“Oh, where are my manners? My name is Tara Channon, long-time resident of the area, recently elected as your personal guide for the day.” Tara executes a small curtsy, pinching and pulling her skinny jeans at the seams. The material remains determinedly moulded to her legs.
My lips twitch as I glance around her. “It appears to be a unanimous decision.”
Tara giggles—a bright, tinkling sound. “Yep, we all voted!”
The generous offer is tempting. It does save me standing outside the reception office, trying to decipher the slip of paper in front of me, which could take the remainder of the day, maybe the week. But I feel uneasy being the focus of this girl’s attention.
I take a deep breath. “Well, I suppose it’s majority rules. Thanks. I’m Eden St. James.” I pass her my timetable and the map of the school.
She glances down and promptly turns the map ninety degrees. Well, there’s my first problem. Tara holds out her hand, and I pass her a pen, feeling a little like a nurse in an operating room. She efficiently marks several rooms on the map, writing the names of my classes. English, math, biology, chemistry… A group of seniors wanders past and a few call out to Tara. She smiles and waves at them absentmindedly. Great, she’s perky and popular. The earlier uneasiness slithers further up my chest. I question whether aligning myself with this girl constitutes flying under the radar.
“The good news is we have math together second period; the bad news is you have old Mr Dough-e-rty for bio.” Tara says Dougherty so slowly I almost fall asleep waiting for her to finish.
“Old Mr Dougherty?” I ask tentatively.
“Yep, I’m pretty sure he took his driver’s test on a T-rex.”
I burst out laughing, then quickly glance around. No one seems to have noticed my noisy outburst.
Tara leads the way down the corridor. “So, what do you think of Jacksonville, Wyoming, so far?”
“Well, the reserves are spectacular. On the other hand, I’ve discovered small town democracy is a little backwards.” The minute I say it, I worry I may have offended her. An image of Tara frowning and turning away flashes through my mind, leaving me to navigate the school alone.
Tara giggles again, and I inwardly sigh. “Come on. We have a few minutes so I’ll give you the grand tour. We’ll start with the west wing.”
Tara walks me through the handful of buildings that make up Jacksonville High. As we walk, she educates me about important school information. Don’t
drink from the bubbler on the left, Gavin sneezed there once. There’s Beth, she sewed her finger on to a pair of jeans in Fashion Design last year. I learn Doug’s acne is much better than it used to be (not wanting to be rude, I quickly glance away from his pimple-ridden face). Tara’s voice drops to a conspiratory whisper as she informs me his third cousin, Mark, whose mother is the school librarian, is dating Beth’s older sister. And I discover Tara’s parents have a taste for themes as she points out her younger siblings: Dana and Gemma—their signature red hair peeking through the throngs of students—while commenting that Erika, Christa, Breanna, and Flora will eventually go here. I have a sinking feeling it may be difficult to remain incognito in a Polly-Pocket-sized school.
“And that’s Mitch.” I glance at Tara. Did her tone just get all breathy?
I turn in the direction where Tara is staring. Walking toward us is a tall, broad-shouldered guy. Dark hair flops over bright blue eyes and a huge grin splits his good-looking face, his eyes focused on Tara. Tara has good taste in guys. She clutches her bag and beams in return.
Suddenly, Mitch pitches forward. From behind him appears a slighter guy, trying to wrestle Mitch into a headlock. The two laugh, and strong arms tangle as they push and shove. The milling students divide around them, some smiling and shaking their heads, some playfully jostling them back.
Tara groans. “And that’s his twin, Noah.”
Now that my attention has been caught by Mitch’s brother, I can’t tear it away. He’s leaner than his brother, and a little shorter. I register tousled, dark blond hair, and an equally broad grin, but at this angle I can’t see his eyes. For some reason I want to know what color they are. The brothers right themselves, giving one last shove. He turns his head to me as they stride closer. As his eyes settle on mine, the breath leaves my body in a rush, and just like that…my world stops.
And has a pulsing new focal point.
Brilliant blue eyes, the color of a seamless summer sky, brand me with the intensity of the sun. I feel my heart strike up a rapid new rhythm, my body temperature rising with each flutter of its hummingbird beat. My attention slowly branches out to register dark lashes, sensual lips, sculptured features. And something else. This boy radiates warmth, security, the promise of something more. I have a compelling urge to step forward into the welcoming glow. But a sense of undeniable, indefinable connection roots me to the spot. It coils and loops around me; all I can do is stare.
The smile fades from his finely chiseled face, his blue eyes widening. The blatant change from laughing and carefree to wordless shock thrusts me back to reality. I suck in the breath I’d forgotten to take. I’ve been standing and gawking like I have the IQ of a watermelon! I blush, the heat splashing across my skin like an exploding volcano. My eyes shoot to the floor.
Thank goodness Tara is unaware of my faux pas. I suspect only a split second has passed, rather than an eternity. She squeals and jumps into Mitch’s arms. He chuckles as he spins her around. I watch the two, feeling even more uncomfortable ogling their public display of affection, but it’s preferable to the azure gaze I can feel focused my way. I realize my timetable is slowly being mangled in my clenched hands.
“Guys, this is Eden. The new kid on the block.” Tara says as she nestles below Mitch’s arm.
“Hey, Eden, welcome to Jacksonville.” The warm reception comes from Mitch. I give him a small smile. Noah hasn’t said a word.
I avoid looking at him again. I don’t need my GPA to translate the look on his face. No one wants someone staring at them like they’re a freak. Believe me, I know.
“Hi, Eden.” Noah’s voice is like warm chocolate, viscous, dark heat that trickles down my spine. I long to look at him again, but I keep my eyes glued to the blue-and-brown patterned carpet.
“Nice to meet you both.” I mumble, my hands thrust into the front pockets of my jeans. I wish I had a fringe to hide behind, rather than my boring brown hair in its usual loose knot. Anything to take the spotlight off me. Maybe a natural disaster of some sort? I appreciate a tsunami is unlikely so far above sea level, but surely someone could rustle up a minor earthquake?
“I have to show Eden the labs. I’ll see you later?” Tara’s voice ends on a coy note, she’s obviously addressing Mitch.
“Cafeteria at lunch. It’s a date!” He grins.
Relief washes over me. I swiftly turn to my left.
“Not that way, goose. The labs are this way.” Tara grabs my arm and propels me in the opposite direction. I take my flaming cheeks and stumble along with her, hyperaware that Noah hasn’t twitched a muscle beside Mitch. I remind myself I’m used to staring. I ignore the strange fact that it bothers me so much.
Tara drops me off at my first class—behavioral science—with a quick smile and a promise to see me in math. I pause at the entry, my books clenched tightly against my chest. My teacher, Mrs Dougal, spies me standing at the doorway. She heaves her considerable bulk from behind her desk and waddles over to me. She opens her arms, inviting me in, and I know instinctively she won’t force me through the indignity of being introduced to the class.
“Ah, you must be Eden.” Wow, word travels fast in these parts. “Come on in, dear. We’re doing group work for the next few lessons. Let me see...” Mrs Dougal looks around the room, where the largely female class are sitting around groups of desks. Most eyes are turned my way. I wait out the front, feeling like an unwilling bacteria under the glare of a microscope. “I think I’ll put you with Bailey, Bianca, and Brandon.” She points to a table to the left.
I walk over and sit in the spare seat, putting down the books that had provided some measure of protection. The three B’s look at me, openly curious. No one makes an effort to engage me in conversation. Despite the revolving door of schools that has been my life, I still struggle with these first day introductions. I suck in a fortifying breath.
“Hi.” I extend an olive branch, albeit a spindly one, with just a handful of leaves clinging to its twiggy bough.
Brandon smiles. “Hey, Eden right? Hi, I’m Brandon.” I figured the guy with the spiked, brown hair and cheeky dimple was unlikely to be Bailey or Bianca. “I’ll show you where we’re at.”
For our current topic, we’re completing a survey on sensation-seeking behaviors. Brandon pulls his chair around so he can lean over and talk me through the task at hand. I don’t need to complete Zuckerman’s thirteen questions to tell you the outcome of my questionnaire. Peace and Quiet are the two attributes at the top of my list for a good night. Bianca, who repeatedly uses her fingers to comb her blond hair, is loudly extolling the virtues of abseiling, which she indulged in last weekend. I don’t want to be seen as too much of a foreigner so I keep quiet about my reclusive tendencies.
“What about you, Eden? What do you do for kicks?” Brandon’s dimples flash at me.
“Well, I haven’t abseiled for quite some time.” Well, ever actually. “I haven’t seen much of Jacksonville though. What else is there to do around here?” I deflect like a pro fencer. Brandon smiles as he launches into the limited activities a small town has to offer—bowling, movies, and a local art gallery.
We complete the exercise, then collate and compare results with the rest of the class. With my low scores, I conclude I’m definitely old before my time.
Just as the bell rings, Brandon casually offers to walk me to my next class. I freeze, my muscles locked in surprise. More small-town hospitality? I’m saved from responding when Tara waltzes into the room. Without a word she propels me toward the door. I throw Brandon a smile, hoping it’s both grateful and apologetic, rather than the confusion I’m really feeling. Brandon shrugs, giving me a small wave as I go.
Tara chats without pause as we walk to math. In the class, she leads us to two seats at the back of the classroom. Unfortunately, I’m not as invisible as I had hoped. Mr. Rosenberg calls out to me by name, apparently there are banners around the school advertising my arrival. There appears to be nowhere to hide, so I return to the f
ront of the class.
Mr. Rosenberg looks like math has aged him before his time; sparse hair circles his balding head, whilst outdated clothes hang on his thin frame. He provides me with several handouts, I barely glance at them before I thank him, spin on my heel and aim for a hasty retreat. But Mr. Rosenberg stands and clears his throat. I cringe, my shoulders hunching up around my ears, knowing what’s coming. He formally introduces me, following the same standard recipe I’ve endured before. This is Eden, she’s moved here from Boston. I hope you’ll make her welcome. I pretend to smile, my eyes scanning the room, seeing nothing but the faded posters on the walls. The now-crumpled pieces of paper bear witness to the awkwardness and agitation that clench and tangle my muscles.
I return to Tara, avoiding the gazes of my peers around me. I can just imagine their curious faces, judging my social status on the basis of my plain clothes, unstyled hair, and makeup-free face.
We’re covering algebra, and rehashing the turning points of polynomials doesn’t keep me engaged for very long. Apparently, it doesn’t inspire attentiveness in Tara either. She holds her phone under the desk and types, her fingers flying across the keypad. I wonder if she’s texting Mitch. My thoughts instantly turn to Noah. I try to rationalize my earlier irrational response. Of course, there are countless reasons for my thunderstruck reaction. He is pretty hot after all; any girl with a pulse would be a little flustered. Although I don’t usually get worked up about compelling blue eyes framed by strong brows…or full lips that would look effeminate on a guy if they weren’t resting above a sculpted firm chin…
