Michael looked forward to them as well. It’d taken all of his restraint not to help himself while he baked them. Every once in a while the buttery-chocolate smell would drift through the air and hit his nose, causing his mouth to water. If Chev didn’t hurry, he’d probably eat them all. He unwrapped another sandwich and wolfed it down while he waited.
A ways off, he heard a motor. Michael turned toward the sound. A large cloud of dust swirled high in the air. Seconds later, a gleaming, black truck drove into the clearing across the lake. He knew the truck, with its huge halogen lamps, chrome roll bars and beefy silver-coated grill. It belonged to Vinny Smith. Dirt clung to the air even after the 4X4 stopped.
The motor shut off. If he’d come with friends to party, they’d have jumped out by now. Other cars would’ve followed. Vinny’s truck sat alone on the opposite side of the lake which meant he probably had some girl in there with him. The possibility of what might be going on got Michael to thinking about him and Chev. They’d had some good times.
Totally his type, she had long, dark hair that smelled of jasmine, a heart-shaped face, the softest skin, and a perfectly curved body. The girl rocked a tight sweater. That was another reason he’d decided to say the words.
I love you, he practiced.
Michael checked his phone. No messages. No texts. He decided to call her again.
While it rang, Michael noticed the car door to Vinny’s truck open. A girl got out and slammed the door. Her ringing phone tinkled through the silence around him.
“Hey, Michael.” Not only did he hear her voice in his ear, but it sang across the small lake. He froze, too stunned to answer. Had she not seen his text? Or did she? He stood. “Michael? Are you there?”
“Chev,” he whispered. “I texted you. Did you get it?” The dank, sour smell of the lake had begun to irritate his stomach. And, the afternoon chill, which felt crisp not five minutes ago, vanished. Sweat covered his back, causing his plaid button-up shirt to stick and scratch, even through his undershirt.
“No, hang on.” He watched her lower the phone and tried to imagine what kind of look would be on her face as she read. Horror. Fear, maybe. Or she might find the whole situation funny. She raised the phone to her ear, her face lifted so that he knew she watched him. But the distance made it impossible to see her expression. In the background Vinny’s country music blared. “I’m so sorry.” A hand went to her mouth.
Anger blistered hot and he struggled to think straight. Michael wanted to beat Vinny to a pulp. The two of them played football together. Michael had believed Vinny was okay. The scum was his favorite receiver. Damn him! He’d deal with Vinny in his own way.
As for Chev, evidently they meant nothing. She’d made a choice, made a fool of him. Into the phone, Michael said, “When you’re done doing . . . whatever it is you came to do . . .” He trailed off as images of his girlfriend and Vinny making out, or worse, entered his mind. He pounded the side of his head with the palm of a hand, trying to knock the thoughts away. “Chev,” he whispered, kicking at a loose rock. “How could you? I guess I should’ve known.” The words came out bitter, cold.
“Cheese on crackers, Michael. I’m not . . . we aren’t—”
“One more thing.” He interrupted as his fury rose. She was making excuses and he didn’t want to hear them. If they weren’t doing anything, then why come here—with him—today of all days? Murder would’ve been better than this. At least he wouldn’t have had to feel this-this pain. Damn her!
“Michael, I—”
“You can take that text, those words you so badly wanted to hear, and shove em up—”
“Jerk,” she shouted, and hung up.
“Ha,” he yelled into the phone. Then slammed it shut. “I’m the jerk. Me,” he hollered across the lake as he grabbed the basket, turned it over, and let the food fall into the dirt. He picked up the blanket and jogged to his car—Red—the only girl who didn’t irritate him. The only one who’d remained loyal. With a key, he opened the trunk and chucked the basket and blanket inside. Then gently pushed it closed. He got in the driver’s side, started the engine and adjusted the mirror. His reflection glared. “You’re such an idiot. Crap!” He slammed on the gas and peeled away.
While Michael drove, he tried not to think about Chev, but that proved impossible. She was laughable, in a very un-funny way. How dare she do this to him?
What’d you expect? It’s what you deserve.
It served him right. He’d seen how love affected his parents, and the way they’d taken it out on him. Why had he figured he and Chev would be any different? Love didn’t exist.
Love. He blew out his breath.
No way would he allow himself to be swayed again.
3. Poison Arrow
“Michael, can you come into the kitchen?”
“Sure, mother.” He walked into the house from the garage. Stink from cigarette smoke assaulted his nose. All the lights were off and, as usual, the blinds were closed. Michael was surprised to see his mother in the kitchen. At this time of day, she usually watched a talk show, still in a good mood. Her “happy” pills saw to that. From her tone, the pills weren’t working at the moment. He set the blanket and empty picnic basket on the counter.
“What’s this?” she asked, taking a drag from her menthol flavored cigarette. A smoky haze caused the stainless steel appliances and walnut cabinets to appear like apparitions. The house mourned in silence, except for the sizzle and burn as she sucked deadly chemicals into her lungs. She wobbled, unsteady on her feet, a frail shell of a woman.
He’d seen old pictures of his mother before his parents divorced. When they’d been together, she’d worn her hair up, in curly piles of blond. Her skin had always been tanned and her honey-colored eyes alert. Not long after dad left, everything changed. She stood in front of Michael now, her hair stringy, skin patchy, and vacant eyes underlined with dark circles. Brown sweats, four sizes too big drowned her body, and fuzzy, drab-looking slippers that at one time were probably white, adorned her feet—a wrinkled potato.
Michael towered over her. She barely reached his bicep. But, as she stood there, a cigarette in one hand and a half-filled wine glass in the other, his stomach started to twist in knots of fear. For her, for him, for the way he knew their confrontation would end.
Michael hated days like today.
“I made dinner for my girlfriend and me.” No point denying. Despite her dirty, half-stoned looks, she was quick as a bull whip.
“Ah, young love.” She crushed the cigarette in an ashtray on the counter, picked up the basket and put it away, on the bottom shelf, in the pantry.
Right then, it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t have used the stupid thing. It belonged to his parents. Who knew how many memories it contained? He also noticed bread crusts on the floor near the trashcan. In his hurry to clean up, he’d apparently missed. Ah crap. Any sort of mess pushed a mad-button on his mother, setting her off.
When she faced him again, her wine glass had been refilled and she held an extra glass. Michael knew she’d filled it for him. Not good. He pulled a barstool from under the counter and sat.
She placed his glass on the marbled granite countertop next to him. Then set hers down, too. From the elastic of her sweats, she pulled out a box of cigarettes, opened it and grabbed one along with a banana-yellow lighter. In a quick motion, she sucked the cigarette to life. Her ashy hollowed-out face and bony body reminded him of a rotting carcass.
The time had come. No sense trying to fight the inevitable. That only made matters worse. He hunkered down, pressing his forearms into the edge of the counter. With a flick of his chin, he motioned toward the wine. “No thanks, I have a game tomorrow.”
“Suit yourself.” She scooted his glass over next to hers and before he’d totally prepared, backhanded him across the face. “That’s for taking my stuff without asking.” No need to yell, her hand spoke volumes.
“Yes, Mother. It won’t happen again.” Michael lo
wered his gaze. His face stung a little, but he didn’t let the fact that he’d felt anything show. He breathed in deeply and swallowed. She wasn’t done.
“You make me sick. It’s your fault your father left.” He watched her face now, could see the near frenzied anger dancing in her eyes. The silvered light from outside made them flicker. “If you’d never been born, if that stupid ali—” She stopped, frightened and looked around the kitchen. After a moment, she continued, “Frank and I would still be together. You ruined everything.”
He closed his eyes and forced his heart to slow down. Do not feel. Don’t let her get to you. It didn’t help. Rage tore through him. He hated everyone. His dad, the guys on the football team, and girls. Cheverly. His mother. He pounded a fist on the counter, allowing the fury to build.
“Mother.” The word came out more anguished than angry. He opened his eyes in time to see the wrath on his mother’s face ease. She caused him pain to lessen her own. He knew it, accepted it, and allowed it. But, he’d only suffer so much.
Maliciously, he went on, “It’s your fault I’m alive. Remember that!” Her hand came up to hit him again. He smacked it away. “Enough!” He may’ve allowed her emotional abuse and permitted her to slap him around some, because he felt sorry for her, but he wasn’t taking any more. Not today.
“Don’t talk that way to me. I’m still your mother,” Catherine yelled, pounding her cigarette on the edge of a quartz ashtray.
Michael glared, but didn’t say a word, stifling the rest of the words he wanted to spew her direction. There wasn’t any point and he knew it, so he held his tongue.
“Fine!” She picked up the glass of wine she’d poured for him and threw it across the kitchen. It smashed against one of the mahogany stained cupboards, next to the refrigerator. He watched it shatter, the broken pieces flying everywhere. One of the glass shards struck him below his right eye. He felt the cut line with blood and trickle down his cheek. The stench of copper and fermented grapes swirled in the air, an interesting combination, especially when added to the lingering cloud of smoke. “Clean up the mess in here.” She lifted her wine glass and shuffled out.
“Yes, Mother.” He went and picked up a piece of glass. A drop of blood dripped onto the bone white tile. I have to get out of here.
4. Second Chance
Dervinias was kelvieri by species, and a scientist by trade. As he leaned over his microscope and peered into the lens, a high-pitched ping flicked behind his right eye.
Only one person had access to him by this means of communication—the King of Canaru—his boss, and adulterer father. The man who’d banished him to Earth almost two centuries ago. He closed the lid over his eye and touched the center of it with his middle finger. An image of the King blipped into his eye. “Your Highness, to what do I owe this honor?”
“Listen closely. Palmo has royally mucked up. Venus is headed toward Earth.”
“How many times has he screwed up? When will you learn, fa—”
“Hold your tongue.”
“But Earth. Why? That wasn’t part of the plan. She was to be sent to Jihyra.”
“I know that,” he roared. “He was at least successful in convincing all of Kelari that the princess is a traitor and a murderer. And that she’s run away to avoid her fate.”
“Still—”
“Quiet! Venus must be destroyed. Immediately upon her arrival.”
“You know I can’t kill our kind. If I did, you know what’ll happen, unless you’ve forgotten. And I’d be no use to you there.” As he spoke, he dropped a blue liquid onto the cells. Under the microscope, he watched them writhe, multiply and suddenly start to die. Damn.
“You’re of no use to me now. At least not yet. This is your chance to redeem yourself. Though you cannot kill her yourself, I’m sure one of your teenaged followers would be more than willing. They’ve been killing for you quite a while now, have they not?”
Dervinius threw the slide into the trash and froze. “Wha-What are you talking about?”
“Do not disrespect me with your lies! Did you really believe I had no idea what you’ve been doing on that planet? I know everything. Make this happen or the next time we speak, I won’t be so understanding.”
“Yes, your Highness.”
But his father had already gone.
5. I Know You’re Out There Somewhere
Fields of yellow wave and sing
White as cream, an iridescent peak
Oceans so meek burst slimy moss
Hide us from the Albatross.
The lyrical words replayed themselves in her mind. It’d come from some obscure American poet years ago when Venus had been studying Earth. She liked the way the consonants and vowels bounced around in her head.
A riddle of some kind, she’d spent hours pondering what the poetry meant. Venus reached the conclusion the poet meant a jellyfish or squid. They were both cream colored and lived in the ocean. Also, the albatross ate those creatures. So, it seemed plausible that the slippery little things would hide. Lastly, the fields of yellow were anemone. Puzzle solved. But, a part of her guessed there was a deeper meaning—another layer. What the layer could be, she had yet to discover.
“Princess. Are you hurt?” His voice sounded far away, but still annoying as a giant mosqarite, the constant buzzing almost worse than the bite. “Venus.”
“Zaren, I’m trying to sleep. Get out.” Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton. She licked her lips and cleared her throat. What the cret is Zaren doing in my room? “Liquid, please,” she commanded the Sensors while trying to sit. That’s when she realized she wasn’t where she should’ve been. No relaxing bed with Body Sensors keeping track of her sleeping needs. If she’d been in bed, Venus wouldn’t have had a pounding headache or a crick in her back. She’d have been much more comfortable.
“I’ll find you some as soon as I know you’re alright.” His large hands wrapped around her wrists and tugged. “Anything feel broken? Are you hurt? Can you sit?”
With effort, she moved into the upright position. The air, the light from the Kelarian suns, even the smells around her all smattered together and formed a strange heaviness. Questions swam around in her head. How did I get out here? When did I begin my journey? Had Zaren come with me? Where was Sadraden? “Zaren, what’s going on?”
“Open your eyes. Try,” he pressed, gently.
She forced her lashes apart, blinked a few times. Zaren, his handsomely concerned face swirled blurry in front of her.
“Huh,” he said, raising one of his thick eyebrows. “What about the rest of you?”
Venus straightened her back, listening to it pop as she moved her neck in slow circular motions. Her insides felt heavy, like trying to push out of the water, but someone held her in.
Maybe my body’s started the metamorphosis. Maybe it has something to do with my boots . . .
Her Kelvieri’s Boots.
The shaman had bestowed a blessing upon her after presenting them. Perhaps that was where the weightiness came from. She didn’t know. She’d asked, but never received a straight answer.
The boots were surrounded in mystery. Her professors and parents had advised that their secrets would be unlocked with time. They’d said all she needed to know was they had to be worn in order to find the entrance to the Manshum Mountains, home to the Gods. The boots were like a pull or a guide, tuned into their Creator—Aetha—the first to have risen with the immortal’s boots.
Without them, a young kel wouldn’t be able to finish the ceremony. Venus had also been told that taking the journey and making the change from a young kelphi into a kelvieri came at a price.
“Princess? Answer me. Everything working in there? ” Zaren tapped her on the head.
“Stop,” she said, shifting away from his hand. “I guess I’m fine. But the way I’m breathing, even the way you and I sound . . . Hey, wait a second. Why are we speaking English?”
“Venus, we need to talk.” Lines creased his forehead. Zaren a
ppeared anxious about whatever they were going to discuss. She studied his face. The angle of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together, and wondered what had happened.
“Yeah, I’d say so. What the helker’s going on?” She teetered to her feet, brushing away the mental cobwebs. Her brain screamed that she’d slept through a problem of cosmic proportions.
“Someone sent you to Earth.” His intense green eyes watched her. Clear. Steady. Anxious.
She peered back, blown away.
Venus had always appreciated his straightforwardness. He never minced words or tried to hide the facts. It’s why they’d worked well together for so long. But this, well she wasn’t prepared. It was too outrageous. How? Why? Who?
“Wha—” She knew how un-princess-like that sounded. Nausea made her stomach turn. That explained why they no longer were speaking their language. Her head, clogged with jumbled madness, pulsed like a beating drum.
She remembered Amberlee had stomped from her room. Going backward over the details, she recalled her and Amberlee talking—about Sadraden and the necklace. The necklace. She reached a hand to her throat. It wasn’t there.
After Amberlee left, Venus had finished packing, dressed and . . .
Blood.
Irrihunter blood. The deep blue substance seemed to have come from the necklace. What could’ve happened to it? Maybe the same place as her coverlette, which was missing, too. She wore only her boots and unisa.
“Princess, talk to me.” He grabbed her under the chin.
“I’m thinking.” Then she said, “Where are we?”
“Near Fort Collins, Colorado. In the United States.” Zaren stretched his arms above his head. Limbering up, Venus supposed.
EXILED (The Connected Series) Page 2
