Maybe I knew deep down that he would understand. Maybe I thought he would understand me, if such a thing were possible. And at the end of the day, no matter how hard I tried to be indifferent about my obsession with being different, I had to admit that my needs were so very simple: I just wanted to be understood.
And if Michael Alexander was able to do one thing perfectly, it was that he could make me feel that, right down to my bones.
There was no getting around it, though—I was a turncoat. I was a backstabbing fiend for sure, because I was totally trashing the feelings of my best friend for some gorgeous hunk of Johnny-come-lately I didn’t even know. How shallow am I right now, and how much do I hate myself?
I reached a trembling hand to my forehead and touched the place where seconds ago, a large goose egg throbbed. It was smooth, cool to the touch.
Healed.
I stood there, trying on my best impression of confused and blank. I looked up at Michael, who was standing so close to me now that I could smell his skin. “I, uh …”
Michael’s hand ever so gently touched the spot where my big welt used to be. “Does it hurt?”
“No …” I breathed, leaving all kinds of loose ends. What blanks would he fill in?
“Weird—it’s gone. Like it was never there. You sure that doesn’t hurt?” He pressed harder to test out his theory.
I pulled away, breaking free, and scowled at him. “Well, what of it? So it’s gone. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Maybe I didn’t fall that hard anyway.” Pretty weak, lame, and worst of all, chock full of maybe. It sounded like a lie to my own ears, and from the grimace on Michael’s face, I knew that he didn’t believe a word of it either.
“Come on, Airel, what’s going on? You know more than you’re letting on, and now you’re lying to me.” He looked a little hurt.
I sighed loudly and pulled on a few strands of my hair, then shoved my left hand in my back pocket. I decided right then that I was going to tell Michael everything, that I would hold nothing back. I was afraid that if I didn’t, I would lose him.
I didn’t want to lose the potential of something with him. I thought, He might even be able to help me. But I was reaching for reasons to keep him close. I sighed again, surrendering to my lower will. “Michael,” I said, “I’ll make you a deal.”
The look on his face was equal parts sadness and joy.
“I’ll tell you on our date.” Hook, line, and sinker. “I just need some time to think things over.” I nearly begged him with my tone of voice. “Please don’t be mad. And don’t worry, I’m fine. I promise I will tell you whatever you want to know. Just not now.”
Uh-oh. I had promised. And when I promised things to boys, planets started to slide out of their orbits. This felt like the end of the world. Things were getting complicated.
He looked at me with a calculating gaze that was covered over with a smile. “Okay.” He took my hands and enfolded them in his own. “You promise to tell me everything?”
“Yes,” I said. “I promise.”
CHAPTER XXIX
Eagle, Idaho—Present Day
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN a Rembrandt, perhaps a DaVinci—the painting that hung above the bed had never been authenticated. But it was certainly very old by 21st century standards. The still life depicted on canvas was a drawn sword hovering against a dark background, the subject alive, shining, and luminescent even as a representation in oils.
It was the Sword of Light.
The painting hung as an object of material lust above the bed in an alcove of an ornate master bedroom in a large house. A man lay sweating on the king-sized mattress under the painting, spittle dripping, tears flowing from twitching eyes. The bed was damp with the manifestation of his toil. The temperature in the room soared above 140 degrees, but still he shivered. Hair plastered itself wet against his scalp.
He was more than sick.
The things he saw in his bed chamber caused him to consider death as an exit strategy toward the pursuit of peace—they itched at his mind, hounding and goading him. But he wondered if what was swimming in the space above his bed would follow him when he left this world.
There were three demons. Dragons. The two smaller ones were feathered like birds and over ten feet long. The third was twice that size, a lizard with sharp spines rising from its back. One of its fleshy wings was torn, and around its neck pulsed a red, molten glow. This pendant was decidedly unholy. Upon the face of the creature, if such a thing could have such a name, was the embodiment of hatred, the essence of malice, the expression of self- prostitution to vengeance.
The demon alighted and stood now, its legs spread upon the bed, straddling the man, who curled into the fetal position. It wielded a curved black dagger which it moved slowly downward, calculatingly, obsessively, until the tip touched the killer’s chest.
With greater force but no greater speed, the tip of the dagger pierced the blanket, the shirt, the skin, the ribs, and blood began to boil outward from the wound, hissing against the dagger, accompanied by spitting smoke as two realms came into collision. The wings of the demon vibrated with hideous pleasure.
The man struggled, trying now to escape but unable—the decision had been made already, in ignorance or not; permission had been granted and could not be rescinded. He turned with bulging eyes toward his bidden trespasser. The big demon, an apparition of smoke and tar, dripping wet, fixed on his prey.
Yellow-green bursts of steam poured from the snout of the thing. It crouched, hovering just inches from the face of its new host. Its dripping maw housed hundreds of fangs, putrid and enrobed in filth. Two horns sprouted from the top of its skull and curved to enshroud its face protectively. A long, thin tongue slithered out and caressed the face of the killer. The red stone that hung around its neck now dangled, pulsing, coming to rest upon the man’s chest.
The pathetic mortal flinched and whimpered.
Tengu, keeper of the Bloodstone, smiled in anticipation above his new host, ripping the air apart with a wild, maledicted scream. He seized the man’s shoulders; his claws dug deep. The glowing eyes of the demon flared brighter, singing eternal death.
The man cried out for mercy.
Tengu responded with contempt, shoving a massive closed fist into the wound he had perpetrated upon the man’s flesh, slithering into the new host as if his body were a pool of water, not a warm cadaver of flesh. The sharp tail disappeared with a snap and twist.
The host bolted upright in his bed, soaked, as if surfacing from a nightmare sea. His heart pounded like a hammer, his right hand curled around something heavy. He gazed down at it in curious terror, opening his hand to behold what he had long desired: the Bloodstone.
Now heavy in his mind but cloudy, he beheld flashes of a rotting, staring face—a horrifying mixture of himself as he was now and as he would be soon—the Alexander.
CHAPTER I
Boise, Idaho—Present Day
LIFE WAS GETTING MORE complicated with each passing day. I was getting more beautiful by the second, which was amazing, but it was also a problem. I had also made a promise to reveal to the most amazing boy—whom I hardly knew—how it was that I could heal supernaturally. That I could heal was already a done deal. My body had already betrayed me in the nurse’s office, forcing me into promising an explanation to Michael Alexander. What else could I have done? But I knew the problem with making promises is that they have to either be kept or broken.
It was another item on the list of things I just didn’t want to think about.
So while I was trying to deal with that potentially life-altering stress, Kim was chomping at the bit to call the police about my newly acquired stalker. She became especially pushy after I jilted her in the school nurse’s office, and I wondered if she was really looking out for me or if she just thought it would be cool to be involved in a police investigation. She made me want to pull my hair out. I sometimes felt like the only person she could think about was Kim. Either way, it was more
than I wanted to deal with, for sure.
As for Michael, one way or another I was going to have to either tell him or show him that I was a freak of nature. And as crazy as it sounded, I thought showing him might be easier. Otherwise he would probably never believe me.
In order to try to regain at least a shadow of control over my own life, I needed some space. That was the one thing my Kimmie was loath to give unless there was a really good reason. So I called her and apologized for excluding her. It was an awkward phone conversation in which I tried to convince her that I wasn’t suicidal, pregnant, or ditching her for Captain Gorgeous. And while I still couldn’t really say what I was dealing with, I was able to talk her into postponing the double-date idea on the grounds that I just needed a little time to think and be myself.
And I made another promise: that everything would be just fine later, and we could share all the juicy details between us after my date with Michael. In the end, it was enough for her, but I felt like I had shouldered a mountain of relational debt in order to placate the people I cared about—or wanted to care about—the most.
Cue the ominous music: it was date night. I was learning quickly that life’s big decisions eventually take us to the edge of the cliff. We must turn back, fall off, or learn how to fly. I was hoping for a miracle, personally.
It was a good thing my mom was busy fussing and hovering over me, because my emotions were getting pulled in so many different directions it was hard to cope. Mom was there, though, to run a brush through my hair and help me decide on the right shoes—but we both knew it wasn’t about any of that. When you need your mom, you just need your mom.
My hair looked like spun silk, but darker, like strands of deep gold that had been interwoven. When I touched it, I gasped. It was soft, but so strong that when I pulled a strand from the brush and tried to break it, I couldn’t. With each stroke, it got smoother and smoother. Maybe I’m going to die. Maybe this transformation will kill me—but at least I’ll die looking good.
It was just after six, and Mom and I shared a glance between us. I pulled on a cute little dress I had picked up at Forever 21. Kim had insisted that I buy it, and I had to admit that it did look great. It was a light, springy material, sky blue, with silver lines falling down the right side and curling up the hip into a flower with silver petals. The thread was so beautiful and delicate that I was almost afraid to touch it. It was a sleeveless V-cut with the delicate hem at my knees. It was so flattering that I blushed at my own reflection in the long mirror on the back of my bedroom door.
Mom helped me complete the look with strappy black high heels. I pulled my hair back with a barrette and let half of it fall over my shoulders. I was amazed. No more flat iron for this chick. I chose the same shade of eye shadow as my dress and some clear lip gloss. I felt amazing. Was this how it was supposed to feel?
Mom excused herself from my room. She said she had to get dinner ready downstairs, but as she left she was dabbing at her eyes, and I think maybe she was just as emotional about date night as I was.
As she blew me a kiss and closed my door, Kim called, my phone bouncing on the dresser.
I answered it, sure that she could hear me smile. “Yes, my dear Kim. I take it you’re still trying to decide what to wear for your hot date with James?” I could imagine her standing in front of her bedroom mirror with a frustrated look on her face, the two dresses in question hanging next to each other like a lineup at the city jail.
“Yes. The red one… is it too fancy? Maybe we won’t be going to a very fancy place. The black one is hot, though... but I’m so pale. I should have gone tanning last week. Argh, Airel, what am I going to do?”
“The black one’s better, no matter where you guys end up going tonight. You know how red and your hair don’t mix. I don’t know why you even bought that one.” Kim had seen the red one—and when I say red, I mean, in-your-face bright red—and had to have it. Her red-orange hair made her look like a cooked lobster.
“You think? The black is so… well, so cliché. You know, every girl has a little black dress. But on a first date?”
“Kim, since when do you care about what anyone else thinks? Go black and don’t look back. I gotta go. I’ll call later tonight; maybe in the morning if we stay out late.” I didn’t want her texting every five minutes for an update.
“Okay, I’ll wear the black one. Oh, I can’t wait.” She giggled. “Call me.”
“Okay.” I hung up and tossed the phone into the tiny clutch I was going to cart around with me, more to complete the look than anything else.
I heard Michael’s truck pull up out front and I moved to the window to look out. I wanted to run down and open the door for him in order to block his path to my dad, but Dad had already told me to stay in my room until he had a chance to meet “the guy.” Yeah, “the guy.” He was more than “the guy,” of course, but dads will be dads.
I heard the doorbell and a dry voice downstairs. I paced the room and double-checked my makeup and hair. Spinning around, I smiled at the way my dress looked. Not bad, girl. Not bad.
“Airel, you ready?” Dad yelled up the stairs. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I grabbed my purse and bolted, glancing one last time in the mirror. I took the stairs far too quickly for the blasted heels I was wearing.
Michael stood at the foot of the stairs in a pink Oxford shirt and jeans that were faded in just the right spots. He looked like a model for GQ.
His jaw dropped, and my dad blushed for me as I came to a stop one step from the bottom. I did a little curtsy and smiled. I looked Michael up and down in a critical manner as if to judge what he was wearing. “Hm. Pink, eh?”
“It’s off-red.” His smile intoxicated me. His light blond hair looked almost white, standing up all over in soft spikes that I wanted to touch. He smiled, holding out his hand.
I took it. “You’re trying to score points here.” He smelled so good. No cologne bomb, thank God—just something naturally irresistible. He looked at me with the biggest smile on his face, as if he wanted to say something but was unable to find the words.
Dad broke the spell. “Now, you two be good. Have her home by midnight. If you need anything, call, and if you’re gonna be late, call. Have fun and remember what I said, Michael.”
I looked sideways at Michael, then at my dad.
He smiled and shook Dad’s hand. “Yes, sir. We’ll be good and she’ll be safe—you can count on that, sir.”
Mom stood there, Dad holding her. Her eyes were misty.
Well, how wonderful. The guy could be a gentleman. I couldn’t resist him, and what was more, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I ever should. I suppressed a laugh. I kissed my dad on the cheek and gave my mom a little hug. “Love you guys. We’ll be fine. Don’t stay up waiting for us. Get some sleep, okay?” I knew they would wait up anyway, because parents are like that.
They were like a masterpiece portrait as they stood there watching me walk away. It was striking and so sweet. Thoughts of my own romantic future stirred my imagination.
I waved over my shoulder as Michael opened the front door for me. The evening air was warm and sweet, filled with pumpkin spice and golden leaves. I breathed in deeply and Michael took my arm, leading me down the front steps.
“So, he gave you the ‘I-will-have-my-revenge’ talk, huh? You were all ‘sir’ and ‘yes, sir.’ Did he show you the 12-gauge, too?”
Michael lifted the latch on the passenger side of his big Chevy truck and helped me in. “Oh, yeah. He even told me that he has a ‘special understanding’ with Coach.” He smiled, indicating that he was probably joking. “He and I had a man-to-man, nothing big. Nothing you’d understand. Besides, I’ve got you now...” He looked at me in the oddest way just then. But it was brief, and before I knew it, he had moved on. “And you look more beautiful than anything or anyone I have ever seen.”
I blushed and looked away, but he reached up and gently turned my face toward his. All I could think of was that my parent
s were probably watching, and it was all I could do to keep from dying over it.
“I mean it. Stunning, hot, Audrey Hepburn—however you want to describe it. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Audrey Hepburn? I was going to die a happy girl. I had spent many an hour with Kim watching Roman Holiday and Sabrina, fantasizing about being the chauffeur’s daughter or the princess. I had memorized those movies, awestruck at how Audrey carried herself and how beautiful she was. If only we could live our lives in black and white. It was poetic, in a way. But for him to compare me to Audrey, favorably, out of nowhere—it just sent me right over the moon.
I could tell that he was dead serious about it. He looked like he was about to cry. The moment shocked me to the core. As long as I lived, I would never forget that look on his face.
Michael stood staring into me, drinking me in. I imagined that if I never said anything, he would stand there all night, looking at me in a way that’s only allowed in fairy tales. This had to be a dream. Michael was not just handsome—he was kind. He had a way of making me feel like the only girl in the world, and he was here, looking at me like this. I felt his hand as it held mine, and his pulse as his heart beat in harmony with mine. It was as if we were made for each other.
“Well, then, Mister, are we going or not?” I asked.
Michael grinned and shut the door, and as he walked to the other side, I had about two seconds to compose myself.
He was winning my heart, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t help myself. He was so wonderful. I was afraid that something terrible was going to happen to mess it all up.
CHAPTER II
1250 B.C.—the City of Ke’elei
The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance Page 14
