Unraveling Emily (Valla Series Book 1)

by Anna Rezes

  “Look at you. You’re a hot piece.” He wraps an arm around me, and I get a whiff of alcohol as he talks.

  Attempting to move out of his grip, I pull my words together. “Umm, I’m late for class.”

  “Let’s take that sweet ass somewhere more private.” He slides his hand over my butt, saying, “Don’t worry baby, I’ll teach you things they don’t teach in class.”

  He’s intimidating, but I can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous line. He scowls and pulls me closer, pinning me up against him so tightly that his hold becomes painful.

  “Let go of me!”

  “I’ll take her,” Patrick’s gentle voice floats to my side.

  This menacing man must have five inches and at least a hundred pounds on Patrick. They engage in a silent stare-down, unaware of my presence.

  “Patrick, what are you doing?” I ask, wordlessly.

  In true Patrick style, his unblinking stare incapacitates the unwelcome intruder. The silent tension between them ends as abruptly as it started, and the man releases me from his grip. He appears confused as he turns to stomp away.

  A sigh of relief escapes me, but I flinch when Patrick touches me.

  “I could’ve handled it,” I say, with misplaced anger.

  “Yeah, I’m sure you had it under control,” he mocks.

  “What was that all about anyway? Did you get what you wanted?” I demand, feeling violated. “Was that your plan? Were you trying to be my knight in shining armor, because I don’t believe in that!” I turn and hurry away.

  “Are you kidding me?” He walks after me. “You’re kidding me, right? Why would I ever purposely put you in the hands of a man like that?”

  Spinning around, I throw my hands out to my sides, “I just told you why!”

  “You think I have white knight syndrome?” he mocks. “I wanted to show you how irresistible you are to those around you. You attract a lot of attention to yourself—another thing we’ll have to work on.”

  “We don’t have to work on anything!”

  “You can’t deny those guys were hitting on you!”

  I shake my head. “For all I know, you manipulated them into doing it.”

  “I certainly did not. Emily, you have no idea how powerful you’ve become. Everyone is drawn to you. Look around, love, it’s not just frat boys and alcoholics that are watching you.”

  I don’t like the way his words are filled with conviction. I think about what he’s telling me and let my eyes wander to the people around us. Both girls and boys, young and old are watching with intense curiosity. I see, and worse I feel the blind interest behind their stares. It’s not the desire I feel from Patrick, but more of an inquisitive compliance, an aberration to the standard way of thinking. I feel an undeserved reverence radiating from the minds of these unknowing strangers.

  Overwhelmed by my own ability, I duck my head and grab Patrick’s arm to pull him into the lecture hall with me. I whisper, “How do I make it stop?”

  “You can’t. Your pull on them is only going to get stronger, so you need to learn how to control it so it’s not so overwhelming.”

  We make our way down to our seats in silence, but as soon as we sit, I’m quick to ask, “But why is this happening now?”

  “It’s been happening. You just haven’t been paying attention. This change should’ve happened at least a year ago. With the amount of power you have, I can’t believe it didn’t happen sooner.”

  “I just want it to stop.”

  “Emily, you need to embrace it. It’s a gift.”

  “Maybe it is to you!”

  I sense a brief backlash of emotion in his mind before he hides it from me. He doesn’t continue the conversation; in fact, we don’t talk for the remainder of the class. I try to listen to the adorable old professor, but I can’t focus.

  After class, Patrick and I part without a word. I go to my next class and he goes . . . well, the truth is, I have no idea where Patrick goes. I don’t know what other classes he takes. I know so little about him because our conversations are so limited in their subject matter. And even though Patrick appears to be honest with me, he’s evasive, making it difficult to read his true self.

  While I’m miserably suffering through my freshman orientation class, I focus on the things I can and cannot control. It sparks an idea, and I turn my attention toward my teacher who I usually tune out. I’m surprised how easy it is to get into her head. She’s fresh out of college and anxious about her first-year teaching. She’s overly worried about what the students think of her, and she’s got a secret crush on the cute guy in the front row.

  I merge my thoughts with hers, my instincts kicking in to make it nearly effortless as my thoughts easily resound in her mind. I envision the warmth of the sun, the fresh air, and the students’ excitement over being dismissed early. I know I’m manipulating her and even though I yelled at Patrick for doing just that, it doesn’t stop me.

  The teacher announces, “Why don’t we leave the rest of this for next week. Enjoy your day. No homework!”

  The class is silent and unmoving for a moment.

  “Go!” she says again. The class lifts with excitement. I hurry to gather my things and escape, afraid my manipulation will wear off.

  I’ve never felt so alive as I walk out of the building. The sun has never been quite so exhilarating, and I don’t remember the last time I felt so liberated. I walk a little taller and feel a little brighter as I venture out to the parking lot, but my confidence falters when I recognize the lean body propped against my car.

  Moment crushed. “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

  “Yes, well I thought you didn’t want any of this,” Patrick says, unmoving from his position against my driver side door.

  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “Really?” he questions bitterly.

  “Really.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be attending class?”

  “We got out early.”

  “Oh, I know.” His laugh is condescending. “I have experienced precisely how persuasive you can be.”

  “Are you stalking me?”

  “I could feel you using your gifts.”

  “It’s a stupid class.”

  “You made it irrefutably clear you didn’t want any of this, yet you’re so quick to use it to your advantage.”

  I throw my hands out to the sides. “I didn’t think it would actually work.”

  He looks to the sky, his hands gripping his hair. He lowers his arms, taking a frustrated breath before his eyes level with mine. “So, you thought you would just experiment with a human mind. Let me get this straight, you’re allowed to use your gifts haphazardly, but you scold me for not allowing that man to rape you.”

  My hands land on my hips. “You’re being over-dramatic. I had that under control.”

  “Really?” he accuses.

  “Really!”

  He leans forward with a smug grin. “I told you it’s not all bad.”

  “I wouldn’t have felt so desperate to leave my class if you hadn’t filled my head with all this . . . this insanity!” I fold my arms across my chest, determined to stand my ground.

  “It’s okay, I know you’re excited to go home and talk to Daddy,” he says with spite. He takes a step to the side and opens my door. With a hand gesture, he invites me inside.

  As I climb into the car, I feel the venom roll off my tongue, “Don’t pretend to be a gentleman, you jackass.”

  “Don’t pretend to be a victim!” He slams the door in my face, nearly hitting me.

  I’m shocked by the hostility. Stunned into silence, I blink a few times as I watch him disappear. I’ve only seen glimpses of his anger, but I know it’s something I shouldn’t invite.

  fifteen

  Arriving home, I take a worrisome breath, attempting to collect myself before walking through the front door. Maggie is right there to welcome me home with a wagging tail nub and lots of kisses. When I bend down to gr
eet her, something catches my attention. Dad is fidgeting nervously by the couch. As if sensing the tension, Maggie lets out a low growl. I straighten and put myself between the two.

  “Hi,” I say.

  As soon as I speak, he’s crossing the room and doesn’t stop until he’s hugging me.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t come home today,” he says, pulling away.

  He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Feeling guilty, I avoid his eyes and look past him to find an intricately carved wooden box the size of a child’s lunch box resting on the coffee table. Curious, my body carries me forward. The closer I get to the object, the more afraid I become. Afraid of a wooden box? That’s ridiculous. Pushing past the fear, I reach to touch the skeleton key laying on top.

  “Wait, don’t touch it,” Dad warns, pushing my hand away. “I need to prepare you for what you might see or remember when you make contact. This box is linked to a memory. I don’t expect you to understand but trust me this once.”

  I don’t question him because after what I’ve witnessed in the last two days, anything seems possible.

  “What do you remember from the day your mother died?” he questions.

  I delve into the past. I was in seventh grade. It’s a day I’ll never forget. I was living in a cloud of humiliation because I had passed out earlier in the day. I had no memory of my blackout aside from making a big scene. I thought my life couldn’t get any worse. Then later that day a teacher came to pull me out of my seventh-period class to explain there had been an accident. She escorted me to the office where Opal Williams, my seventy-year-old widowed neighbor, sat waiting for me. I was given no further explanation, so I knew it must be very bad.

  The car ride with Opal was disheartening, and when we arrived at the house, no one was there to greet us. My sister showed up a few minutes later, having driven herself home from high school. Tears were streaming down her face as she ran to embrace me. She had no idea what had happened and was just as worried as I was.

  Dad was the last to enter. His desolate expression was painful to watch as his haggard body crossed the living room. His skin was ashen. His eyes drained of hope. He cleared his throat to speak, and I wanted to stop him. Perhaps if he didn’t speak it aloud, it wouldn’t be true. But I couldn’t stop him, just like I couldn’t stop my mother from dying. A sob escaped my lips as he relayed the devastating news that our mother was dead.

  I blink, bringing myself back to the present. My eyes blur as I stare at the box in front of me. I blink again to adjust my focus and something wet drips down my face. I touch my cheek, inspecting the glistening moisture on my fingertips. I’m crying.

  “I don’t want to remember that day,” I conclude.

  Dad looks at me lovingly and says, “How much did Patrick explain?”

  “You know about Patrick?”

  “Yes, he told me, though, he didn’t need to. I could feel him trying to get into my head the moment we met. When you marry an Olvasho, you learn to recognize when they get into your head.”

  “Marry a what?”

  He looks confused. “I thought Patrick explained.”

  “He didn’t mention anything about an Old-vash-oh?” I voice, testing the neologism.

  “Ol-va-show,” he articulates. “It’s what most individuals like you and Patrick call yourselves. It’s what your mom was. You are descendants from the original Olvasho sisters.”

  “So, there is a name for us. Patrick called us human.” I feel odd to include myself in a group with Patrick.

  “That’s true, you are human, but you’re capable of more than a normal human. I’m not sure what you’ve discovered so far.”

  I knew this would be a difficult conversation but having him sound so comfortable about this topic—like we are talking about the weather instead of special powers—is hard to wrap my head around.

  “What am I capable of?”

  “You have the ability to read minds and see into souls. You can communicate with people and animals on a profound level. You have heightened senses which allows you to experience those around you with more intensity. Someday you may be able to put your thoughts into another’s mind; although, it can be quite invasive.” Dad points to the table in front of us. “Do you remember this box?”

  I rub my temples, willing away my oncoming headache. “No . . . Eh, yes . . . It’s so hazy, I can’t remember.”

  “You said Mom told you about it when you blacked out that day. She came to you with her last words. You didn’t remember right away. You woke up one night shortly after your mom died and asked me about this box. I pulled it out for you. Inside, we found papers written in the Olvasho language that I’m unable to decipher. You became inconsolable as you read the information. Something about it triggered the memories from the time you blacked out. I never want you to experience that kind of pain again, but it seems inevitable. I’ve kept it from you as long as I could. Now it’s time for you to remember.”

  He reluctantly hands me the skeleton key and images begin to emerge. I delve deeper into the hazy memories. Events come into focus, and I gasp as I relive the past all over again, as if it’s happening for the first time.

  I’m in seventh grade sitting at my desk surrounded by students chattering all around me. The girl to my left is leaning over her desk talking to me about her mega crush on Jason Fowler. I’m listening intently when the whole room disappears into blackness. My mother’s face appears directly before me in the dark. I’m submerged in panic when I see the grief in her eyes.

  “Emily, my love, take care of yourself. I’m so sorry.” She places a kiss on my forehead, leaving me feeling faint before she disappears.

  I search the darkness in confusion before the classroom solidifies around me. My focus is anywhere but on the girl talking animatedly beside me. I’m searching the room for my mother. It feels like there is a constricting noose around my neck making it impossible to breathe. A piercing agony rips through my chest and I let out a shriek, collapsing onto the floor.

  Tears erupt from my eyes, and I ignore the attention I’ve captured. I only want one individual’s attention, and she’s gone. I close my eyes as the teacher rushes to my aid. The darkness behind my eyelids recedes, and my mother’s terror-ridden face emerges from the nothingness. I barely make out her raspy whisper, “The box . . .” Blood sputters from her mouth as she struggles to stay on her feet. She grabs for the nearby wall but collapses mid-reach. She breathes one shallow breath before the life behind her beautiful emerald eyes is snuffed out.

  Forced out of the darkness, I open my eyes to see my teacher crouched over me. My peers stare at me with curiosity, and I notice Ben’s worried expression despite the tears clouding my vision. My seventh-grade mind tries to make sense of it, but it’s already fading. The images disappeared from my mind as quickly as they came, leaving me with no memory of my blackout. I was left confused and drowning in humiliation at my outburst.

  I blink and I’m back in my living room sitting next to Dad with the unopened box before us. Vivid memories illuminate my mind.

  “She was murdered!” I jerk up from the couch as if I can pull away from the memory. “Mom was murdered,” I repeat quietly, mostly to myself, trying to unwind the messy tangle of lost memories. Now I understand why I was inconsolable when I was twelve. The images are haunting. Mom came to me mentally to say goodbye. I was not meant to follow her after she said goodbye, but I went back into her mind and found her—something I shouldn’t have been able to do at twelve-years-old.

  How could I have forgotten the look of terror on her face as she realized I was with her? How did I forget the knife? It was jagged and long with a carved bone handle. How is it possible I forgot such a gruesome scene? And why don’t I remember the pain? Her pain seared itself inside my head. I felt everything she felt. I remember the blood sputtering from her lips. I was with her as she spoke her last words and breathed her last breath. I suffered her death as if it was my own. And then, almost immediately, I forgot
it all because my abilities weren’t developed enough for my brain to process the experience. But I retained the memory in my subconscious mind, where I had tucked it away until I could comprehend all that had happened.

  Bile rises in my throat. I lose my footing and Dad lunges forward to catch me as I take a dive. The wooden floorboards disappear beneath me as darkness takes hold.

  I wake on the couch in a daze. I sit up too quickly and feel another wave of dizziness and nausea.

  “You okay?” Dad says from the chair next to me. “You passed out.”

  Bracing my head in my hands, I say, “I changed when I was twelve, didn’t I?”

  His voice sounds broken and apologetic. “Yes, all of the Olvasho powers hit you at once and you couldn’t control them. Anyone who came near you would instantly feel your pain like it was their own—like they had just watched their mother die in front of them.”

  “That’s why you committed me?” I ask with realization.

  “Not exactly,” he shakes his head. “I called your mother’s friend to help you. She was able to suspend your powers from manifesting temporarily. It’s comparable to shoving the cork back into a bottle of champagne. We weren’t sure if it would work or how long it would last. We knew it could burst open anytime and we had to find a safe place for you. The group of Olvasho who killed your mom was looking for you. We didn’t know how much they knew, so we had to be careful. Before we took you to the hospital, your mom’s friend altered some of your . . . Eh . . . memories. It was done to calm you, but you didn’t understand. You were confused and felt I had betrayed you, but the truth is, I had to keep you safe.”

  He’s pleading with me to understand now since I couldn’t before. His expression breaks my heart. I was deeply hurt at the time, and I never quite recovered. I was angry with him for causing me more pain. He’s right. I felt betrayed. Now I begin to see the glimmer of reality in the dark memory. I’m starting to recall the lost moments, the ones that were altered, the ones my mom’s friend stole from me.