Soul Drifter (Divinely Touched Book 1)

by Dyan Brown

  “Will you be able to see?” I look up and over my other shoulder, only to see that his eyes are well above the level of my head. In fact, he could comfortably rest his chin on my head.

  “Perfect,” he drawls, dipping his head low, rumbling the word from his chest.

  The sound makes my breath exhale, and I have to swallow, ignoring the way parts of my body have begun to tighten in response. How in the hell does he do that?

  I have a fleeting suspicion that he may have planned for us to end up sitting this way. He sets the popcorn beside his leg, so I end up resting my forearm on it to reach the bag. Previews flick to life on the screen, and there are a few people that cheer in the distance.

  I pop a few kernels into my mouth, trying for ladylike instead of my normal shoveling of huge handfuls into my mouth. Even with the warm air surrounding us, I can still feel his breath hot on my neck. He moves us forward as he leans his torso toward me. I’m confused until I see him reach for the radio.

  He flicks a small switch on the side and then relaxes back, pulling on my waist as he goes. Cuddling back against him, I tilt my head to the side and back, resting on one of his wide shoulders and exposing the side of my neck to him, like a vampire’s willing victim.

  The thought makes me smile, because I would gladly let him bite me anywhere he’d like. As if reading my thoughts, he places a gentle kiss on the slope of my neck. Involuntarily shivers run from the moist location of his kiss and ripple down my arms, quite noticeably. He chuckles at my reaction, and I smile in embarrassment, blood rushing to my cheeks.

  A few previews later, the opening credits start to appear. I can’t believe I forgot to check which movie we were seeing. What did the cowboy sign say? There were two movies on the sign, I think. My relief is immediate when I see classic comic strips flash to life. Superhero movies I can do.

  Ironic, but whatever. No. Not ironic, I’m not a superhero. I’m… What? A crusader? A leader? What will they call me when I find them? My throat tightens, and I have to force the thoughts from my mind. Sometimes thinking too much about the insurmountable task of leading a war in the name of God just makes me want to run, regardless of how determined I am.

  I suck in air sharply, not realizing I was holding my breath. Holding it again for a few beats, I release it slowly through pursed lips.

  “Samantha, are you all right? Is something—”

  “No, no. Nothing’s wrong; I’m fine. Just forgot to breathe. Deep in thought, I guess,” I say dismissively.

  Now used to the idea, or at least understanding that I have panic attacks over things others may find inconsequential, Grayson is usually sensitive to them. Besides my uncle, he’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel different because of them.

  “What were you thinking about?” He starts to brush his thumb over my bottom rib, gently and soothingly.

  “Honestly?”

  Grayson makes a low noise of encouragement behind me.

  “I was kind of wondering if you meant to have me in this position from the start.”

  A large hand reaches up, cupping my right breast in his palm. Air huffs from my lungs in surprise, making the tiniest sigh at the touch. “What would give you that impression?”

  Question or not, I was too far gone in his touch to say anything. He was right. Everyone should go to a drive-in. Dipping his head to my neck, he gently begins to kiss his way up to my jaw, the kisses growing firmer and needier along their path. Of its own accord, my head turns, and he captures my mouth the instant it’s within reach of his own.

  His mouth is soft, his tongue firm against mine, and I can feel the desperation in his kiss. I reach up and around, running my fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. Still kneading my breast, he starts to thumb my nipple, which hardens through my bra and shirt. While his other hand flattens over my stomach, he begins to pull me back toward him.

  I feel him harden through his jeans against my lower back. Whether or not he realizes it, he slowly pushes his erection against me in the slightest of movements. My lips are numb and tingling from the pressure of our kiss, but I don’t slow for even a breath. I wriggle my bottom back against his groin, and he moans against my mouth with pleasure.

  Notwithstanding the opportunity, he hasn’t kissed me like this since the first time. Even though it nearly makes my legs knot in protest, I pull back from the kiss. Knowing his wishes, I try not to pressure him any more than either of us can stand.

  Both of us are limp and breathing hard from the kiss. I nuzzle into his neck with my face, and he kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says in a whisper against my skin.

  “You should stop apologizing after kissing me. You’re going to give me a complex,” I joke, still relaxed into his chest.

  He chuckles softer than normal as to not to disturb the other moviegoers. “It was more about the groping in public part.”

  “We could always go somewhere more private where you could grope me,” I suggest in a slightly teasing tone, even though the movie isn’t even five minutes in.

  Grayson lets out the air from his lungs as if he’d been punched.

  Well, that’s a no. Ouch. “I was joking, you know.”

  “Yeah, no, I’m sorry.” In frustration, he props his knee up, resting an elbow on it and rubs his forehead hard with his fingertips, turning his skin white.

  Taking his hand down and lacing our fingers together, I say, “Let’s just watch the movie, okay?” He looks at me with a slightly surprised, but grateful look and nods. April’s words about Grayson needing a ‘good girl’ flash through me, and for the briefest of moments, I feel as though he’s not telling me something.

  16

  Over the next several months, all I do is eat, sleep, attend class, study, train, and drift. Uncle Carl has me repeating our histories over and over, and he tells me the stories of some historical individuals who were Divinely Touched. Some of the stories are really interesting… or at least they were the first time. I understand that, since we can’t have anything written, the only way the stories can live on from one generation to the next is to recite them, but come on. Sometimes it feels like he wants to tell me something else, but I can feel he’s holding back.

  When school started, my load got heavier. I had to ask him to lighten up on the story repetition. He agreed, but he’s still sparing with which questions he chooses to answer. He seems more apt to write prescriptions than to tell me how to survive. But where Uncle Carl is avoiding training me how to drift, Cedrick is making up for it in spades.

  Cedrick taught me that the Jessica Rabbit hair is to help disguise me while drifting so I’m not as recognizable if I’m ever seen again. I thought it was stupid, since people wore wigs or dyed their hair all the time, until Cedrick reminded me such options weren’t possible when Drifters were first created. He says he can teach me how to change my hair in my physical form, too.

  Also, yes, I can be hurt while drifting—worse than when I’m in my physical body. Something along the lines of: ‘When a wound is so deep it scars your soul, it takes much longer to heal than that of flesh and bone.’ So, no more jumping into oncoming traffic for this girl, to say the least.

  Training with Grayson gives me legit time with my boyfriend around my hectic schedule, even if I am all sweaty. It’s not as if Grayson leaves much opportunity for us to get the fun type of sweaty together. It’s just that he’s extremely good at turning the heat of a romantic situation into a cold shower for both of us.

  Honestly, it’s exhausting. I understand the whole ‘wait for marriage’ thing, and it’s sweet, but this is the twenty-first century. I’m nineteen, in college, I have an extremely hot boyfriend, and I can’t even get him to second base. Isn’t there some kind of law against this type of thing?

  I hate to push him, but all the training, the build up to recruiting Divinely Touched, keeping secrets, being loaded up with a regular study load, and the denial of relief when we do mess around is leaving me sexually frustrated! At leas
t that’s what Cedrick says—among other inappropriate comments regarding Grayson’s private areas.

  Silly. I guess I was assuming that since we’re in college, and because Grayson looks like he does, we’d eventually sleep together. But nope. He is one very stubborn man. Oh well, I have more important things to concentrate on than my virginity. Like drifting.

  I’ve been able to control which nights I drift via Uncle Carl’s sleeping pills. Uncle Carl’s being all too willing to refill my anti-drifting/sleeping pills, which has been nice for the nights I have taekwondo, giving my body a chance to recover from all the newly acquired exercise.

  Along with my five core study classes and my daily internship during the week, I have taekwondo on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and I have drift training on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which only leaves Sunday with Grayson. I have to study during the day between classes or I’d never get any sleep.

  Although I’m still getting dirty looks from Professor Creeper, I’m not doing badly in his class. Uncle Carl refused to acknowledge the odd behavior Rendell displayed during our first encounter, even going so far as to nearly shout at me, “Let it go!”

  Okay, Elsa. You got it.

  Taekwondo is a lot of fun—more than I thought it would be. It’s neat knowing how to shift my weight so I can throw even Grayson to the ground. One of the harder parts was in the beginning when we were learning how to fall properly. I wasn’t doing it right for a while and ended up with bruises on my tailbone and elbows. The first time Grayson saw I had bruises, he completely tripped. It took a few hours to convince him to let me continue to practice with him.

  The other good thing about all this training is that I’ve gone down a size, and I can tell I’m starting to build up some muscle in my arms and legs. I even have tiny girl-guns when I flex my biceps.

  Since tonight I’m leaving myself open for drifting, I put on a long-sleeved black shirt and snug, black exercise pants. It didn’t take me long to figure out that what I wear to sleep is what my image projects me in while I drift. It just seems easier this way. I even found black flexible leather shoes that are okay to sleep in.

  It still eludes me why sometimes people can see me and sometimes they can’t. I mostly think it would be way easier if they all could see me, but the part of me that’s Divinely Touched knows better. Cedrick told me later the reason the nurse didn’t need to see me was because she never would have been convinced by a teenager over her own professional fifteen years of nursing to keep trying to revive that man. Divine order basically. We’re only seen when we have to be; keeping us hidden is safer for everyone.

  Knowing the story of Abigail, my ancestor and the first Drifter, does help me some. She began this journey having to hide herself and her husband, John, from their country and even their own families; making everyone think they’d drowned themselves rather than have John forced to serve in a war with Scotland. Being conscripted into the war was a near-certain death sentence; and if John died, Abigail would be forced to marry into another clan to repay a debt. Had they not done what they did to be together, none of my family would exist, and who knows how many lives would have been lost or ripped apart if Drifters had not intervened.

  I tighten the end of my French braid by putting a second hair tie on it as tightly as I can and tuck my locket into my shirt. As I slip into bed, just as I’ve done on each night I prepare to drift, I pray silently for it to be a peaceful night. Just in case, I quietly recite the prayer of protection.

  “The light of God surrounds me.

  The love of God enfolds me.

  The power of God protects me.

  The presence of God watches over me.

  Wherever I am, God is, and all will be well.”

  From out of the rolling waves, the world refocuses and starts to become clear. I find I’m standing inside someone’s house. There’s a massive walnut front door with etched glass panels in the upper half. A grand spiral staircase with two doorways on either side is behind me, along with the sound of systematic ticking.

  Whoever lives here is well off. I look back over my shoulder at the antique grandfather clock beside a door underneath the stairwell, and it says it’s a quarter to midnight. The house is quiet, and I assume everyone’s asleep until I hear a faint female laugh coming from upstairs.

  The instinct I’ve developed over the last few months has let me know she’s who I need to help, but she certainly doesn’t sound in distress. It sounds more like she’s half drunk and flirting with a guy over the phone.

  So… what am I here for?

  I immediately inhale so deeply that my nostrils flare, smelling for gas or smoke. I don’t know how I’d be able to tell if it was something like carbon monoxide. I peek around the doorframe to the right of the stairs and see a family room straight out of a magazine. It tunnels back to a dining room with a large table set for ten. Nothing looks unusual so far. Well, nothing unusual for the fabulously wealthy, anyway. I can’t help but shake my head and lift my eyes skyward.

  Quietly, I cross back to the front door and pass through the doorframe on the left. I find a small study with lots of dark, wooden furniture and a forest-green leather sofa that all looks uncomfortable. The only thing left is the door under the stairs to the left of the clock, which has to be a kitchen.

  I cross the foyer over to the little door, which swings as I touch it. I pause for a moment but then almost laugh at myself for thinking people with such an extravagant house would have a squeaky door. I push the door open the remainder of the way to find a beautiful kitchen with stainless-steel appliances, dark granite countertops, and honey-maple cabinets.

  There’s a window over the kitchen sink and two large windows in the far corner of what looks like a breakfast nook. The back-patio light is casting a faint glow from the windows onto the table. Straight across from where I’m standing, there are two glass-paneled French patio doors with sheer white curtains covering the glass. I would love to have a kitchen like this one day. It makes me wonder what Grayson’s parents’ house looks like back in Omaha. I’d bet a five-dollar cup of coffee that his childhood home looks close to this one.

  I sigh and start to turn back to the foyer, but a shadow catches my eye. I pause in the doorway, my hand still gripping the solid wood of the butler door. I’m not as skittish as I used to be during these kinds of situations. I feel stronger and more confident than when I first started drifting, even though it’s only been a few months.

  My awareness has become heightened ever since Cedrick and I began working together. I’ve learned of some very cool abilities that only I have, like reading auras. Cedrick says it’s how I’ll be able to identify the other Divinely Touched, and the different colors are related to their gifts. It’s also become an extremely useful skill during my drifts. Like now.

  There’s a second movement between the light outside and the back door, and another shadow is thrown onto the French door. I breathe out slowly through my mouth, forcing my eyes to concentrate on the source of the motion. After focusing for a few pounding heartbeats, I see them.

  The outline of two men shines through the curtains. Immediately, I can tell their intentions are more sinister than simple burglary. Both men’s auras are a dark, murky red that mixes down to a muddy-green closer to the outline of their bodies. Dark red is anger, and dark green is jealousy or resentment.

  Not a good mix.

  I let go of the aura sight—no reason to waste time or give myself a monster headache by trying to hold the aura too long. I look back over my shoulder and see the alarm panel on the wall by the front door. One of the buttons is lit up a neon green. I hope that means it’s armed, but I doubt it.

  I don’t have much time to check; it’ll only take them a moment to pick the lock. I quietly close the butler door, making sure it doesn’t swing and give my presence away when I let it go. Turning for the stairs, hoping this is one of those times people can see me, I head up.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I get to t
he top in a hurry. The upstairs hall is long, with two open doors to the right, three to the left, and a smaller, closed door at the end of the hall. There’s only light coming from one of the doorways—the second one on the left. In a few large strides, I reach it and enter without hesitation.

  There’s a dark-haired woman in her early twenties lying on a chase lounge and painting her toes while drinking wine and talking on her cell phone. The wine bottle sitting on the stand next to a glass beside her is mostly empty. The bedroom is beautifully decorated, naturally. The only thing not out of Better Homes and Gardens is the white gown hanging from the closet doorframe to my right.

  “I can’t believe we’re getting married in a week and you have to be out of town!” she whines into the phone.

  She looks up, straight through me to her gown as she speaks, so clearly, I cannot be seen. That’s just irritating. What’s the point of disguising ourselves if half the time no one sees us, anyway? I huff in frustration and turn back down the hall, going into the first bedroom I passed.

  I look around for the first fragile thing I see. Grabbing a vase of flowers, I chuck it at the far wall away from view from the hallway. It smashes into fragment shards and leaves the wall dripping with delicate flower petals that scatter on the floor. I hear a short scream, and then silence from the next room. The vase did its job.

  Turning back toward the hall, I wait for her to come investigate. Only a few seconds later, the alarm’s notification chime sounds downstairs as a door opens. The alarm wasn’t active, of course. I forget about trying to prepare the princess for the attack and instead rush back down the stairs.

  This time, I take three steps at a time, not hesitating even as I fear falling from the force of my forward momentum. I reach the alarm panel and flip down the plastic in the center. All the buttons look the same in the dim light of the foyer, but I find one with the emblem of a police shield on it, and I press it.