Evie's Knight (3 page)

Evie beat her dad home and threw her barely damp clothes in the washer, knowing it was time to do some laundry. After pulling on a comfy pair of PJ bottoms and a snug tee, she hauled more clothes up to the wash and scanned the pantry. She’d been dying to try out a couple of new recipes, but they’d have to settle for fast and easy. A can of tomato soup stood out among the boxes and packages–it’d have to do.

The screen door creaked open, and a gust of cool wind swept through the kitchen. “Evie,” her dad called.

“Hey, Dad.”

The cold air followed him into the room as he tugged out of his suit coat and ran a hand over his dark, peppered hair. His gaze fell to the stovetop. “Can I help with anything?”

“No thanks, I’ve got it.” The buttered slices of bread sizzled as she dropped them onto the heated pan. She piled shredded cheese onto the slices. “Just going simple today.”

Her dad rolled his unbuttoned sleeves up to his elbows and washed up at the sink. “Simple’s good. Looks great.”

Yellowed light poured from the dangling fixture over the kitchen table as she set down the steaming bowls of soup. Dad smacked the back of the remote and pointed it at the TV. He tapped the volume down a bit and looked at her.

“How’s school?”

Well, I got hissed at by some crazed witch. Just a sketched one, of course.
She shrugged. “Good, I guess. We’re analyzing each other’s work in art. Like, they put it in front of the class and every one says what they think of it.”

He stirred at his soup. “Are they constructive? Polite?”

“Not always,” she said.

“Have they critiqued yours yet?”

Evie shook her head.

“Which one is it? The one of the front porch?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled. “You dreading it?”

“Totally. At least I’m off the hook until Wednesday.”

With a knowing nod, he looked up at the TV and clicked the volume back up.

“How’s work?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed as he looked beyond her to the screen. “What was that?”

“Work going all right?”

Looking back to her, he exhaled a slow, drawn out breath. “Work’s not too bad. Had a suicidal teen at the home today. Spoke with both him and the parents.” He stirred at his soup some more. “Think we might have made some progress.”

She nodded in reply, hoping he wouldn’t elaborate. Why anyone would want to specialize in teen psychology was beyond her. Evie was nearly out of her teens, and she was still a mess.

With a contented sigh, she turned her attention to the blaring box and pretended to watch the news with him. Yet every few bites or so, she’d check the time, knowing the newspaper would be there soon.

Once her dad finished the rest of his soup, Evie stood up. “You done?” She hovered her empty bowl over his.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The dishes clanked as she stacked them together, dropping both spoons into one bowl. After placing them in the sink, she slipped into the front room and creaked open the screen door. A cool rush of wind swept over her body as she stepped onto the porch to grab the paper.  Evie latched the door closed, wiping her damp feet on the carpet while a burning anxiety seeped into her core.

The rain-splattered bag hit the ground as she yanked the rubber band off the crisp roll, hurrying to the coffee table. After dropping to her knees with a thud, Evie flattened the paper, searching the index as her heart thrummed like the tick of an explosive bomb.

Obituaries–7C.

The tips of her fingers felt clumsy and numb as she flipped through the pages, chanting the destination in her head.
7C, 7C.
Page after page of printed text meant nothing to her. All that mattered–everything she needed to know in that heightened moment would be on that one page. 

She couldn’t take in the diverse names–the foreign faces–fast enough. After a hurried glance at each obituary, she read the names a second time, slowly, thoroughly checking each picture–absorbing every female face. By her third survey of the entire section, the rigid tension drained from her limbs.

Mom’s still alive, wherever she is.

Her dad cleared his throat, announcing himself as he entered the room. His gaze dropped to the open page, concern framing his deep blue eyes. Evie hadn’t missed the subtle, disapproving shake of his head. He glanced back at her, and she placed the expression in an instant. He was giving her the exact look he’d given the new disposal the other night when, upon installing it, the thing still leaked beneath the sink. The flustered expression of,
I’ve done all I can do, and it’s still broken
. In this case, ‘it’ was his own daughter.

“Are you done with that?” he asked.

She stood up, straightened her back, proud and unrepentant. “Yep. Done.”

Chapter Four

The sight of the dagger ripped a hollow gasp from Calvin’s throat. Blood, deep and crimson, oozed down the gold blade. He knew–before even looking–that it was Evie’s blood.

Breathless strides took him closer to the delicate girl, lying pale and lifeless on the altar. He glared at the Raven-haired Ghost hunched over her form. “You killed her.”

With eyes as dark as the death in her wake, the demon scowled at Calvin, and spat words so haunting they tore him from sleep. “No, Calvin.
You
killed her.”

Calvin jerked into consciousness, compelled by the horror–the sheer terror of what he’d seen. Of what he’d heard. He took in the darkness around him, panting for breath, and ran a hand through the damp strands of his dark hair. He peeled off his t-shirt and tossed it to the floor. “Stupid sketch,” he mumbled, shoving the blankets to the foot of the bed. He dropped his head back onto the pillow, cursing Grandpa Knight and his wild stories.

It’d been years since Calvin had feared the ominous Raven-haired Ghost, and now, after drawing a likeness of the beast, relating the tale in short to Evie Wylder, the unwelcome terror had gripped him once more.

But only in sleep,
he vowed, closing his eyes again. He was no longer a child, a naïve believer of impossible tales. He pushed all thoughts of the demon out of his mind, wishing he could conjure a pleasant image of Evie. Her innocent beauty and capturing smile. Yet all he could see was the violent image of blood and horror. He pushed it aside and waited as the hours passed, anxious to see Evie once more. Desperate to replace the vision in his mind. 

***

“Ready to see your lover boy today?”

“Shh.” Evie looked over her shoulder. A mass of students scurried across the foyer of the art building. “Seriously, Kelly. He could be anywhere.” They filtered into the bright bathroom, each taking a stall, and met at the sink to wash their hands.

Evie straightened her shirt over the waist of her jeans. The yellow tone of fluorescent light took the blue out of her eyes, leaving only a sea of green. For a brief moment she wondered if her mom’s eyes did that too–teetered between the two colors.

“I’m dying to skip art today,” Kelly said.

Evie slid some Chapstick over her lips, blotted them together. “Why?”

“Cuz I feel like crud. Plus I’ve got this gargantuan zit.” Kelly thrust her chin toward the glass.  “Ugh. Let’s bolt.”

“You know what? Maybe we should skip.”

Kelly’s eyes widened as she chewed at her lip ring, the way she always did when something excited her. “Wait. Did Evie Wylder actually say we should ditch class?”

Evie sighed, wondering if she really had it in her to skip. She only had art three times a week, and she didn’t want to wait until Friday to see Calvin again. Still, she’d just barely managed to rid herself of the ugly darkness that followed her home on Monday and if she returned to class now, the looming fog might come creeping back. She wanted more time. A bit of distance to keep her head straight.

Kelly cleared her throat. “You going to tell me why you want to skip?”

She thought of another reason, a less complicated one. “They’re critiquing my art in class today. I know it’s going to suck.”

“I forgot about that,” Kelly said. “They’ll probably do mine too, but I don’t want to miss it.”

Evie gave her a sideways glance as she pushed open the heavy door, raising her voice over the hallway chaos. “You don’t?”

“No way. I want to see if they can make sense of my painting. I’m telling you, it’s epic.”

“I wish you would have shown…” Evie let the sentence die as she watched Kelly’s gaze move slowly from the center to the corner of her eyes. “Who are you looking at?”

Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “Your boyfriend. He’s with Conehead.”

“Who?” Evie knew the boyfriend part was in reference to Calvin, though it was nowhere near the truth, but she had no idea who Conehead was. She flipped around to see the mean little redhead from art nudged up beside him as he strolled toward class. A wave of jealous heat spilled over her skin.

“That girl is evil,” Kelly growled. “Trust me–I’ve got biology with her and she is vicious. Better not let her get her paws on your man.”

Evie had already seen as much for herself, but she didn’t bother saying it aloud. “Conehead?”

Kelly gave her a nod while taking a backward step. “Yep. See ya. Good luck on your art thing. They’re going to love it.”

“Thanks. You too.” Only Evie wasn’t thinking so much about the art thing anymore. She wasn’t thinking about the eerie sketch, either. She was thinking about the redhead and Calvin, strolling along campus side by side. She hurried into the art room, dreading it all the more, and noticed the jock in his usual chair behind hers. Her shoulders slumped. She spotted the duo at Calvin’s desk. He had taken a seat in his chair. She sat on his desktop, facing him, dangling her stubby legs off the edge and laughing wildly.

As she slipped into the chair, Evie scrutinized the waif-like girl vying for Calvin’s attention. All her life Evie had been told she was small. Both short and thin, she was used to being one of the smallest in her class. This girl was smaller. Even her head seemed narrow, which made Kelly’s nickname almost cruelly appropriate. Yet, she was pretty. Large jade eyes, flowing ringlets of strawberry hair, freckled skin even lighter than Kelly’s.

Calvin leaned away from the little thing as he replied to her, looking as if he wanted distance. The rich tone of his deep voice cut through the chatter like the hypnotic tenor of a beating drum– one designed for Evie’s ears only. Even in a low mumble it was beautiful. 

The professor announced himself with a few short coughs. “We’ll be analyzing the remainder of your art in just a minute, but first I want to let you in on an upcoming project.” He stopped and eyed the girl on Calvin’s desk.

Calvin nodded toward the professor, and the redhead retreated down the aisle in an annoying fit of giggles. She pointed a glare at Evie before dropping like a feather into the chair in front. 

Evie rolled her eyes.

The professor continued. “Each of you will create a piece of art that represents a momentous event in your life. You’ll need to select a partner within the class to analyze this piece.”

Partner?
The word repeated in her head like a call to action.

“I advise you to pair up with someone you are not well acquainted with, as you’ll want to receive an unbiased opinion on your art. I’ll give you a moment to take care of that, and then we’ll move on.” Professor Milton folded his arms and looked at the class expectantly.

Evie pulled in a nervous breath. A sudden wave of chatter broke over the room, and she realized people were already selecting their partners. She glanced at Calvin, panic rising within her, when he turned to look over his shoulder.

Is he looking at me or the redhead?
She blinked a few times, unnerved by the thorough effect of his gaze.
Me. Definitely me.

“Evie,” he said. The word sounded wonderful as it rolled off his tongue. He pointed at himself, and then at her, raising one dark brow. “Partners?”

She nodded, gave him a smile. “Yeah.”

When he returned the gesture with the easy flash of his flawless grin, a rush of triumph spread through her body.
Me and Calvin Knight–partners.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” the professor said,  “ I want you to be thinking of the event you’re going to portray. It can be the most beautiful moment in your recollection, a time of complete joy and accomplishment. Or you may opt for the darkest, most dismal time in your life, portray the grim affects of utter loss or failure. The choice is yours.” He stepped toward the stack of projects.

Holy crap!
There were too many things going on inside her head. The idea of working with Calvin Knight. Critiquing his art–having him analyze hers. That on its own was major. Plus she had to decide what to paint, pick some momentous event from her life. Not to mention, at any minute her piece would make it to that easel for all to see. Her art–all the work and emotion she’d put into it–would soon be vulnerable before a vicious sea of wild sharks and one redheaded piranha.

The first piece shifted from the desk to the easel. Not hers.

That critique was over in a blink and the second went up on display. Not hers either. On the third piece, the loud guy and the redhead picked up on their regular game of tag team, pegging the overall idea as shallow and overdone, which seemed to be the theme for the day. Still, Evie’s art lay nestled somewhere within the stack. She watched with morbid fear as each new canvas took its place, waiting for hers to drop into the spotlight. At last Professor Milton propped her artwork on the high-standing easel. A lump of nausea rolled through her stomach.

“Materials?”

“Acrylic paint,” someone hollered.

“Yes. And what do we see here?”

A different voice spoke out. “Looks like Grandma’s house to me.”

“Be a little more specific,” the professor urged.

Evie cringed. There seemed to be only two kinds of paintings as far as the class was concerned: ones that provoked interest and emotion, like Calvin’s, and ones that didn’t. She already knew where hers fit in.

The loud guy piped up, “It’s just a white house with black trim.”