Eternity (v5)

by Heather Terrell

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Piper had a quizzical expression on her face, but it looked forced. She knew what I was talking about.

  “You know, the bathroom.”

  “Oh, that,” she said with a wave of her hand. “That was nothing, like I said.”

  Here was my chance.

  “Wel , if you ever need anyone to talk to . . .” I reached out and touched her shoulder.

  I got a strong flash. The vision showed her and Missy in the school library, transfixed by Piper’s laptop. They were sitting so close, I could actual y smel the coffee on Missy’s breath. Looking through Piper’s eyes, I saw an open Facebook page.

  Missy was barking orders at Piper. “Hurry up, Piper. I’ve got to meet Zeke at the Til in ten minutes.” The Til was a bar frequented primarily by university students, and had a pretty strict carding policy. How did Missy think she would get in there?

  Piper typed furiously in response, but didn’t look up. Although, I could feel her heart race and her stomach churn at the mention of Zeke. Who was he? I couldn’t think of a single Til inghast teenager named Zeke. Maybe he was a University student.

  As Piper typed, I looked closer at the screen; she and Missy were creating a new user profile. This struck me as odd given that both girls had been active on Facebook forever. Just as I tried to make out the user name, the image faded. I returned to Piper’s kitchen.

  Piper shook off my hand. “El ie, I don’t need your help.” Then she marched off to the front door.

  I fol owed in her wake with a private smile. I didn’t care if she dismissed me, because I final y had something to go on.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I was wrong. The more Michael and I mul ed over the flash I’d gotten from Piper, the less excited we became. On closer analysis, the flash didn’t real y shed much light on the scheme—beyond the Facebook element—or the intended victim. On balance, we were left with more questions than answers.

  Even though I hated to admit it, we were both getting a little frustrated and burned-out from our little investigation. So when Michael suggested—

  in the nicest way possible—that we leave off our “research” for the week before the fal dance, I told him I’d seriously consider it. After he mentioned I was looking worn-out, I agreed to take a break; I wanted to look good for the dance, as he wel knew. But I found it hard to put the whole thing out of my mind.

  I tried to let the dance distract me. Once Ruth final y forgave me for buying my dress without her—after I pointed out that it left me more time to dedicate to her search—we spent hours at the mal . She tried on gowns in every shade imaginable—from black to pale green to lavender to chocolate brown—and final y settled on a pale pink dress that looked surprisingly perfect with her reddish hair. The big hurdle over, she then turned her attention to the smal er details like our hair, makeup, shoes, and even nails, not that she thought of these finer points as minor. We pored over countless magazines and visited every Til inghast makeup counter and shoe store until we found the perfect accessories. Happily, I let her sweep me up in al things dance, relishing feeling like a normal teenager for a change.

  We made plans to have everyone meet at my house just before the dance. Everyone included not just me, Ruth, Michael, and Jamie, but the parents as wel . Ruth didn’t feel comfortable having Jamie pick her up at her house with just her dad around. And anyway, Ruth’s dad and my parents were close. Once my parents and Ruth’s dad were going to be on the scene, we felt like we had to include the guys’ parents too. I never thought the guys would actual y ask them. But surprisingly, they did.

  Friday night before the dance everything was in place. I had my dress, shoes, purse, and makeup lined up and ready to go, even though we had hours to get ready on Saturday. I finished my homework that afternoon, so I wouldn’t have to think about it Saturday and Sunday. I’d even begged off flying with Michael; I told him that I needed at least one night of uninterrupted sleep to look perfect for the dance. He begrudgingly agreed.

  But I couldn’t sleep. I was restless, though I couldn’t say exactly why. Thoughts of Missy and Piper crept into my consciousness, but they weren’t the sole source of my agitation. Anxiety about my powers and what they meant crossed my mind from time to time, yet I’d real y let go of my worries over the past week and enjoyed myself. So, why couldn’t I sleep? Had I grown used to staying awake al night? Was it just typical pre-dance jitters that average teenage girls experienced? I didn’t know.

  The minutes ticked by, a half hour, an hour, two hours. I grew madder and madder at myself. I should’ve just gone flying with Michael; it always tired me out. Final y, at the three-hour mark, I threw off my quilt and sheets and padded over to the computer. I had to do something other than lie there in my bed.

  I stared at my Google homepage. Before I knew it, my fingers were racing across the keypad. I looked up and saw the name “Professor Raymond McMaster” typed into the previously blank search box. Where had that come from?

  I real y hadn’t given him much of a thought since that humiliating day in Miss Taunton’s class. Or so I thought. My subconscious must have been working on overdrive. The truth was, I didn’t feel like a vampire. I always imagined vampires as cold-hearted, or no-hearted. The feelings I felt were . . . big, warm, inclusive. I needed an expert to help me sort this out. I clicked onto the Harvard University webpage and read Professor McMaster’s résumé. Under-grad and grad work done at Harvard, fol owed by a post-grad stint at Oxford. He did an assistant professorship at Stanford, after which he took on his current tenured role back at his alma mater. Impressive. Especial y for a Dracula expert.

  Scanning down the bio, I saw a list of his published papers. They weren’t al about vampires; some of them focused on other “supernatural folklores and mythologies.” But vampires certainly seemed to be his specialty. I clicked on one paper that looked particularly interesting:

  “Multicultural Origins of the Vampire Legend.”

  I clicked open the paper. The very first words made me shiver unpleasantly. Professor McMaster might not serve as the al y I’d been hoping for, to convince Michael that we were not vampires.

  Vampires walk among us. Whether the Scottish baobhan sith, the Indian baital, the Chinese jiang shi, the Croatian kosci, the Romanian moroi, or the Mexican tlahuelpuchi, every society and every culture harbors vampires. The question is not whether vampires exist—in our collective subconscious or on our streets—but in what form and why.

  Page after page, Professor McMaster’s thesis—al around the notion that vampires must be real, given their presence in every civilization—

  enthral ed me. And chil ed me. This wasn’t some kook spouting off crazy conspiracy theories on the internet, but a respected scholar at Harvard University, of al places.

  But, Professor McMaster saved the real zinger—to my mind, anyway—for the last paragraph.

  This survey makes clear that, although each society’s vampires take different forms, they share two unsettling characteristics: an inhuman ability to transport themselves, and a fascination with blood. But while interesting, the precise form and nature of a culture’s vampires ultimately is of no import to the vampires’ purpose. Wherever they might be found, whatever form they purport to take, all vampires embody our darkest and most primeval fears of the unknown and serve as the key to the mystery of what, if anything, comes after death.

  Suddenly, Michael’s vampire theory seemed al too possible.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  By morning, I had no time to think about Professor McMaster, vampires, Missy, Piper, or anything other than the fal dance. Ruth arrived at eight A.M.

  with as many bags as my parents and I took with us on our summer trips and a computer-generated timetable of our appointments and activities. I was never so happy to see Ruth; I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts for company.

  Al day long, Ruth swept me up in a tidal wave of manicure and pedicure appointments and professional makeup application
s. I drew the line at having my hair done by her stylist—no one could ever make sense of my thick, pin-straight hair, not even me—but I watched as Ruth had her hair pinned into a complicated style that real y suited her. I thought my parents would balk at al the overt displays of frivolity and materialism, but they didn’t. They seemed relieved to have a normal sixteen-year-old daughter getting ready for a dance. I found it a relief to play the part, rather than wal ow in the reality that I was some freak of nature, like one of the creatures described by Professor McMaster.

  “Ruth, El ie! Come down, girls. Everyone wil be here in a few minutes,” my mother yel ed up to my bedroom from the base of the staircase.

  “Oh my God, it’s almost six,” Ruth nearly shrieked.

  I looked at the clock in disbelief. Had we real y been primping and preening for almost ten hours? I guess if I cut out the time we spent getting coffees and lunch as wel as the time in transit and gossiping, we had spent more like four hours beautifying ourselves. But stil , it was kind of unbelievable.

  Ruth and I walked over to my old, stand-alone ful -length mirror. Gazing into it, I gave her the once-over first, not quite ready to face my final self.

  “You look gorgeous, Ruth,” I said and meant it. With her long reddish hair pul ed off her face and neck and the pale pink dress setting off her physique, she was transformed into a princess.

  She gave me a huge hug and then quickly pul ed back to check me out. “El ie, Michael is going to faint when he sees you. You look so glamorous, like a movie star or something.”

  Laughing, I stared back at the mirror. I definitely did not look like a movie star, but I looked better. Somehow, the fitted red dress and new makeup enhanced my figure, straight black hair, and blue eyes. Instead of appearing gangly with oddly bright eyes, I looked, wel , striking. It felt weird to apply that word to myself even in my private thoughts.

  “Girls!” my mother yel ed again. That tone meant hustle.

  Teetering on our heels, we hurried to the top of the staircase. Just as we were about to walk down, we heard a loud knock on the front door.

  “Too late,” my mother whispered harshly from the bottom stair.

  Our momentary delay in front of the mirror cost us. We would now be forced to descend my steep, long staircase with an audience, like a pair of modern-day Scarlett O’Haras. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make on Michael’s parents. I’d been kind of hoping to go the nice-girlfriend route, not the drama-queen path.

  Glancing at each other first with a mixture of fear and excitement, Ruth and I put on our game faces. We pasted on brave smiles and headed downstairs hand in hand. My dad opened the door about mid-staircase so I couldn’t get a good look at our guests until we neared the bottom stair.

  When I final y glanced up from the final step, to which I had my eyes glued so I wouldn’t fal , there stood Michael, so handsome in a dark blue suit and yel ow tie. His green eyes pierced mine, and I didn’t need to ask him how I looked. His expression said it al .

  In front of everyone, before he even brought me over to his parents, he took me by the hands and kissed me lightly on the lips. Then he strapped an exquisite rose corsage around my wrist; he already knew there was no space for it on the bodice of my dress. He whispered, “It’s nowhere near as beautiful as you.”

  I should’ve been embarrassed, but I wasn’t.

  He broke our gaze first, saying, “Mom, Dad, you remember my El ie.”

  My El ie. He knew precisely how to make me melt. I stretched out my hand to a very pretty, chestnut-haired woman who was beginning to gray around the temples. Just like my parents. I’d met his parents twice before—once when they had me over for dinner, and once when we sat together at one of Michael’s footbal games. They were unfailingly pleasant, if a little distant and formal, and somehow we managed to avoid the awkward topic of Guatemala. I stil couldn’t dredge up an image of Michael from the far reaches of my trip memories.

  “Mrs. Chase, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “You too, El ie. You look absolutely lovely tonight. Michael told me about your dress, but his descriptions didn’t do justice to the dress—or you in it.”

  I blushed, thinking of Michael talking about me to his parents. Trying to ignore the redness of my cheeks, I welcomed his dad next. He was attractive, with an olive complexion and nearly black hair. I kept searching for family resemblances, but blond, fair Michael didn’t favor either one of them.

  My parents joined our conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Ruth, Jamie, and their respective parents made their introductions.

  The group moved into the living room, and my mom passed around appetizers while my dad poured soft drinks for the kids and wine for the adults.

  An hour passed with surprising ease. School and the dance provided ready topics of conversation, and even Ruth’s usual y recalcitrant dad seemed to relax and open up. Around seven, Michael and Jamie started glancing at their watches and dropping hints that we should leave. The parents acquiesced, but only after they took about a mil ion pictures.

  Everyone said their farewel s, and Ruth, Jamie, Michael, and I hopped into Michael’s car. We had decided on one car. We had no idea what the parking would be like, and in any event, we had agreed to hang out at my house afterward.

  Michael was just about to pul out of the driveway, when I cal ed out for him to stop. Unused to carrying a purse, I’d left mine on the kitchen counter.

  Michael drove me right to the porch’s front steps, and I climbed up them as fast as my spindly heels would al ow. Opening the front door, I was relieved that none of the parents were lingering in the front hal way. I wanted to slip in and slip out without the holdup of more chitchat.

  Tiptoeing down the back hal way toward the kitchen, I heard my mom and Michael’s mom talking. So much for going undetected. But then a rush of water from the kitchen sink sounded. I peeked in and saw our moms’ backs as they rinsed off the dishes. Maybe I could slide in and grab my purse unnoticed.

  “I stil cannot believe that you and Armaros are in Til inghast,” my mom said in a tone that wasn’t exactly warm.

  “We real y had no other choice,” Michael’s mom said apologetical y.

  “After we worked so hard to make them forget that they’d ever met—in Guatemala. . . .” My mom’s voice trailed off.

  “I know. And so successful y with El ie. Those same techniques didn’t work so wel with Michael, as you know.”

  “We did need to have them meet at least once before they come of age, to see how they’d react to one another and to find out what they were capable of together. We needed to take that risk in Guatemala. I just wished they’d ful y forgotten each other,” my mom said.

  The way my mom said it made me wonder whether something awful had happened in Guatemala that they wanted me to forget. If only I could get flashes from my parents or Michael about that trip. I’d tried without success. I kept coming up against that same wal .

  My thoughts were interrupted by Michael’s mom. “I know, and that’s the only reason we’ve let them spend time together. But it would be so much easier to keep them in the dark until it’s time.”

  “It would have been easier if you’d stayed away from Til inghast,” my mom replied, her voice getting louder and angrier.

  “You know that the best way to protect them is to have them in the same location. To keep watch over them.”

  “You should have contacted us beforehand.”

  “It didn’t seem wise. You know that. Tonight—al of us together in one place—was risk enough.” Michael’s mom sounded almost repentant.

  “Even once the children had found each other of their own accord? You didn’t think that you should contact us then?” My mom’s voice rose; she was real y mad.

  “We couldn’t take the chance, Hananel. It seemed better to wait and al ow their relationship to develop of its own accord. And watch.”

  Hananel? Who was Hananel? My mom’s name was Hannah. And what were th
ey talking about?

  My mom was almost screaming. “Watch? Those are rich words coming from a former watcher, whose watching was anything but passive waiting. Just what did you think this passive waiting and watching would gain us?”

  “Time, Hananel. I thought the watching would give us time.”

  My purse dropped to the ground with a clap, and both women pivoted toward me.

  “El ie, honey, I thought you’d gone,” my mom said, her voice as sweet as sugar.

  I bent down to pick up my purse and brandished it like a sword. I smiled as if I hadn’t heard a thing, and said, “Couldn’t leave without my purse, could I?” Then, uncertain of what to say or do, I waved good-bye and raced back to the car. The conversation I overheard was bizarre, to say the least, but I wouldn’t let it ruin my first dance with Michael.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The expression on our classmates’ faces as we walked into the gym was worth every moment of preparation. The girls mostly gave Ruth and me sidelong glances of appreciation and mild astonishment, but the guys were another story. Some of them openly gaped as we sauntered across the room.

  Ruth basked in the attention, and I could tel that Jamie derived a certain vicarious thril being by her side. As for myself, I experienced a surge of power not unlike the sensation I got when I had a strong flash. And looking at Michael, I saw that he did as wel . The feeling helped dispel the nagging voice inside my head about the conversation I’d overheard in the kitchen, which I hadn’t dared to mention to Michael yet. I didn’t want to ruin our perfectly normal teenage night with a reminder of our strangeness.

  We smiled at the other kids as they stared at us, and tried to act casual. The four of us commented on how the dance committee had real y transformed the place. Our gym no longer looked like a relic from decades past, but more like an intentional y retro eighties dance club.

  Al the while, Ruth’s voice buzzed like a little bee in my ear as she gave a running commentary on the other girls’ dresses. Lexie, she pronounced, looked great in her strapless blue mini, as did Charlotte in her black-and-white lace dress. But, Ruth said, what was Nikki thinking wearing that gold satin ful -length gown with a crystal neckline?