Inescapable (The Premonition Series) (16 page)

He sniffs the cake warily. “You weren’t being facetious about these things, were you? You really want me to eat this?” he asks me stoically.

“Yes, they’re yummy,” I say, taking a bite of the other Twinkie in the twin pack. He tentatively bites the Twinkie, chewing it thoughtfully. “You know what would go great with these?” I ask him, licking the cream filling off the tip of my finger.

“No, what?” he asks, arching his brow at me inquiringly.

“Cognac,” I say, smiling at him as I chew my Twinkie.

“Don’t let a Frenchman hear you say that,” he says, and we both laugh.

“Will I be as strong as you one day?” I ask, thinking of how effortless his actions in the store had been.

His brow wrinkles thoughtfully. “I don’t know. You’re different from me, but it’s possible,” he says. I close my eyes, trying to imagine having that kind of power. His tone becomes serious as he says, “But you aren’t strong yet. You have to make sure you never go there without me, Evie. I’m very serious about this. Promise me,” he insists.

“Reed, did you just call me Evie?” I ask in shock, my eyes flying open to look at him.

He’s watching me closely, and I wonder if his butterflies are as powerful as mine are. I’m fighting the attraction that tugs me towards him. I have to get away from him soon. He’s making me want something that I can’t define. It’s no longer a kittenish desire to be near him; I’m beginning to feel feral inside.

“Promise me, Evie,” he says again. It isn’t just that he called me Evie, it is the
way
he said my name—the seductive tone that he used.

“You never call me Evie,” I say softly. “You always call me Genevieve, and you usually say it like I’m annoying you, like I’m insignificant.”

“Maybe you are growing on me after all,” he replies in a gentle tone. “And you’re hardly insignificant,” he says, frowning as if he is seeing something from another perspective.

“Say it again. Say my name again,” I ask him in a hush tone.

“Promise me, Evie,” he says, and the sound of his voice feels like a caress.

“Nothing happened in the store tonight. No flashes of light, no threatening monsters, nothing…” I trail off again, fighting the pull of our attraction.

“Evie,” he utters sweetly.

“I promise,” I say breathlessly, feeling myself blush.

“Thank you,” he smiles.

“What is our next move?” I ask, trying to stay on track and not be dazed by his lovely face.

“We wait,” he replies.

“Wait? Wait for what?” I ask in confusion.

“For you,” he replies cryptically.

“For me? What am I going to do?” I ask in bafflement.

“It shouldn’t be long now,” Reed goes on.

“What shouldn’t be long now?” I ask. He only smiles at me like a child would at a new toy. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I ask, feeling frustration.

“Can’t,” he says calmly.

“Then what good are you?” I tease him as he pulls into a parking space at Yeats. “Hope you enjoyed that Twinkie because you’re not getting another one until you start talking.”

“So, what mischief are you planning with your blond companions?” Reed asks, ignoring my comment and changing the subject.

“I can’t tell you,” I reply coyly, not letting him get away with it. “All I will say is that it won’t be long now.”

“Just be careful, Evie. With all that’s going on, you don’t need to go out and court trouble,” Reed replies with concern, stating the obvious.

I want to ask him if he’d define having just gone to the 7-Eleven as courting trouble, but he is being nice to me now, and I don’t want that to change. “It’s called having fun, Reed. You should try it sometime,” I say with a playful smile. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow at practice, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll see you at practice,” he says softly, and then he does something that I would never have expected if I’d lived a million years. Leaning across the seat, he touches my hair. With a curious smile, my eyebrow arches in question.

Reed’s fingertips skim my cheek in a whisper-soft caress, eliciting an airy-sounding inhale from me that betrays the perfect danger of the moment. He begins leaning toward me slowly, almost as if he hopes I will have the strength to save us from what is about to happen. No such power exists within me, so I wait to feel his kiss. As Reed brushes his lips gently to mine, a flush of warmth filters through my senses. Closing my eyes, I savor the wistful sweetness of his lips while my heart beats ponderously in my chest. Feeling my fingertips resting against his cheek, I wonder briefly how they got there. That thought flees as I move closer to him, losing my way when heat sends me free falling into hidden fires.

Drawing back from me, Reed’s eyes meet mine; his are sage green and at their centers, midnight. My fingertips feel cool against the warmth of his skin as they slip behind his neck. Leaning forward, I graze my lips over his again, and like a stone wall slowly battered by the elements, something collapses between us. He pulls me to him urgently, and then…hellfire. Every kiss I’ve ever had before this one was a dusty, broken toy in comparison. I crave him. I’m not the one who ends the kiss. I have no control over the fervor that has overcome me. Reed gently, but insistently, ends our kiss.

Resting his forehead against mine, Reed murmurs, “Evie, we are in trouble…there is no doubt.”

“Trouble, why?” I rasp with my arms wrapped securely around the back of his neck.

“Because I will never be able to stay away from you,” he replies shamelessly, nuzzling my neck just below my ear.

“Ohh,” I say, half in reaction to his lips on my neck. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You should go,” he says, holding me tighter.

“Yes…I have that thing…” I reply, pressing my cheek to his and hugging him as if I’ll never see him again.

“Okay…I will see you tomorrow,” he says. “Goodnight, Evie.”

“Goodnight,” I sigh, pulling away from him, but our hands stay entwined until the last possible second as I get out of his car.

I smile at him before I close the door, and I stand there in the parking lot while he pulls away. Walking back to the dorm, I near the lamppost illuminating the sidewalk. I almost jump out of my skin when I notice someone standing just beyond it.

“Russell!” I say, feeling my whole life spin out of control when I see the look on his face. He looks like someone had died. No, that isn’t it—he looks like someone who has been betrayed, like he just had to pull a knife out of his own back.

“Save it, Evie, I saw ya,” he snarls, starting to walk away.

“Russell, Reed was helping me…” I lamely try to explain.

“Helpin’ ya? Helpin’ ya do what?” he asks as he stops and faces me. “It looked to me like he was helpin’ himself to ya. Unless his voice has started workin’ on ya, I’d say ya were enjoyin’ it.”

A blush stains my cheeks as I panic. “I meant, before that…” I trail off. I can’t even be honest with Russell about what happened at the 7-Eleven. The less he knows about all of it, the better. Isn’t that what I had decided in order to protect Russell? But it doesn’t feel like protection, it feels like betrayal, and something in my heart feels cut as if it bleeds because I’ve hurt him.

“Ya mean there’s more to this than I just witnessed? Well that’s a relief, Genevieve,” he says sarcastically before adding, “why don’t y’all enlighten me on whaty’ all have been doin’ all evenin’ with the guy who was just yer enemy a couple of days ago.” He waits for me to speak, but I can’t. “No…ya got nothin’ to say to me?” he asks.

“I’m sorry, Russell,” I say simply. My throat tightens and aches.

“Yeah, yer sorry,” he replies in a low, sarcastic tone.

Russell’s shoulders slope as he walks away, leaving me to my feelings of shame and remorse.

CHAPTER 11

Paradise Lost

I skip breakfast in the morning so that I can avoid seeing Russell. I still feel raw from what happened last night; the kiss with Reed had been nothing short of amazing, but the betrayal I saw in Russell’s eyes haunts me. Buns and Brownie had tried hard to cheer me up the night before, but I still feel absolutely awful about hurting Russell. It isn’t only that. I feel lost, too, like a string around my heart is unraveling and slipping through my fingers.

I decide to go to my Art History class early so that I can talk to Mr. MacKinnon. I find him setting up his slides for his lecture. Sam is sort of handsome, now that Buns mentioned it, in a bad-boy of the teacher’s lounge kind of way. With dark hair and blue eyes, he has a scruffy five-o’clock-shadow thing going on at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Excuse me, Mr. MacKinnon, may I come in?” I ask tentatively from just inside his classroom doorway.

“Ah, Genevieve, is it?” he asks, looking up from the projector. “Yes, please come in. Have you come to tell me that you will sit for me?” he asks confidently.

“So, you’re a mind reader as well as an artist,” I reply. “I’m sorry I made you wait for my answer.”

“That’s quite all right. It just shows that you’re wise beyond your years to question and not to take things at face value,” he compliments. “When can you sit for me?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays are good, since my afternoons are free. I have field hockey practice in the evenings,” I say.

“Good, how’s three thirty until five sound? The afternoon light will be perfect for what I’m thinking about doing with you,” he says, scrutinizing me for whatever it is that he has in mind for the portrait.

Feeling a little shy, I say, “I can do that. When should we start?”

“Today, if you can. I’ll have my assistant, Debra, ready to take some pictures this afternoon. Three thirty,” he says, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically.

“I’ll be there,” I reply. “Can I help you set up the projector?”

“Oh…this…someone mixed up my slides. I’m going to be talking about the Paleolithic,
Venus von Willendorf,
but for some reason, my slides are out of order, you see…” he says, pointing to the screen at the front of the room, “I keep getting stuck on Hieronymus Bosch’s
The Garden of Earthly Delights.
Some call it
The Milienninm.
”

I try to hide my surprise because the painting is somewhat scandalous…umm, I mean high-art. “It looks very involved,” I say, gazing at the oil painting that depicts what seems to be a series of three separate paintings linked together.

“It’s a triptych, which in this case is a heretical painting in three sections done in oil on wood. You see, the middle section is the largest, it’s a square, and two separate rectangles flank the square. The rectangles can be folded like shutters. Of course, when one does that, there is another painting on the other side. This one has a scene of the creation of the Earth, on what is believed to be the third day,” he explains.

“What do these paintings depict?” I ask in fascination.

“The left is said to be the Garden of Eden at the moment God presents Eve to Adam,” Mr. MacKinnon says enthusiastically as he waves his hand toward the left portion of the screen. “The middle panel is still the garden, but without God present and vastly more populated with fantastical creatures and highly creative nudes. And the right is a Hellscape that depicts damnation.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say, somewhat speechless.

“Yes, Bosch was well ahead of his time, you know, he painted this in about 1503. It is said to be his masterpiece, but I’m more partial to his
Last Judgment
triptych. Let me see if I can find the slide… ahh, here it is. The left panel is called
Paradise.
If you look at the bottom portion of it, it seems to depict Paradise and God creating Adam and Eve. In the middle of the same left panel of the painting is the temptation of Adam and Eve. It shows them being driven out of Eden by an angel of the Lord. At the top of the left panel, we see Heaven where God is seated and the angels are driving out the fallen angels. You see them there,” he says, pointing to the screen where painted angels battle among the clouds, “they’re at war with each other.”

“Fascinating,” I manage to say as I sway a bit on my feet.

Leaning up against one of the desks near me for support, my legs have a hard time holding me up. I can’t take my eyes off the top portion of the left panel called
Paradise.
The angels are at war, and the fallen angels are being cast out of Heaven. The Fallen are actually falling to Earth, well Eden anyway. I try to listen to what Mr. MacKinnon is saying about the other panels, but my ears are ringing, and my heart pounds in my chest.

“We’ll go over this in minute detail in the middle of the semester,” he explains as he ends his brief lesson with a smile, clicking the projector to other works of art in his search for the
Venus von Willendorf.

A bead of sweat escapes my brow while the projector continues to throw garish color all around the room. “Thank you, Mr. MacKinnon, you’ve been very enlightening,” I murmur, before I go over to an empty desk and sit down.

I resist the urge to put my head down on my desk when class begins. Instead, I stare fixedly at the enormous Paleolithic earth mother on the screen. I’m numb; all I’m capable of doing is breathing in and out. I don’t think I would’ve even realized that class was over if it weren’t for Mr. MacKinnon stopping by my desk to remind me of our appointment at three thirty. Rising, I leave his classroom. I sit down on the steps in the front of the building and rest my head on my knees. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here on the steps, but something breaks through the cold, bone-chilling numbness within me. A fluttering in my stomach brings me out of my daze. Reed stands in front of me with a look of concern on his perfect face.

His way too perfect face,
I correct myself in my mind. I think he asked me if I was okay, but when I just stare at him, he looks around and seems to make a decision. He lifts me up, removing me from the stairs. Entering the Fine Arts building once again, Reed carries me into an empty photography-class dark room before closing the door and locking it behind us.

It’s a dimly lit, maze-like chamber with numbered mounted cameras along the wall that look like long-legged cranes spaced between cubby-like niches. Winding past a partition, there are countertops full of plastic developing trays and chemical bottles. In the back is a smaller room; a worn green sofa and a couple of old, mismatched lounge chairs are grouped together in a private seating area.

Reed sits down on the dull-green sofa, pulling me with him onto his lap. Reaching over to a low table, he flicks on the softly glowing lamp. My voice falters a little when I mumble, “Reed?”

“Ah, so you decided to join me. I’m glad. I was beginning to worry that I would have to take drastic steps to bring you back to me,” Reed says in relief.

“I was thinking,” I reply, not really sure if that is true.

Reed sounds skeptical, too, as he asks, “Are you quite sure about that? It appeared more like you were catatonic.” When I don’t reply, he asks, “What were you thinking about, Evie?”

“About all of the things that you can’t talk about, but mostly, I was wondering what it would’ve been like if I were normal,” I murmur.

“Well, you’re not normal, and we cannot change what we are—how we were created. You were born to be dangerous,” he says seriously. “You should embrace it.”

“I’m dangerous?” I snort disbelievingly.

“Very,” he replies plainly.

“I don’t feel dangerous, I feel small and exposed,” I say, turning my face away from him.

“Evie, you’re the most dangerous creature I have ever encountered, and I have encountered them all,” he says, playing with my hair.

“And you would know, right, because you’ve been around since, what, the dawn of time?” I state, thinking of Bosch’s gory depiction of the angels at war. Reed stops playing with my hair and I take a deep breath before I ask, “Were you one of the fallen angels, or were you one of the angels who cast them out?”

Reed is silent, and his face betrays not a hint of what he’s thinking. I take another deep breath, forging on by saying, “I’m leaning toward a divine angel. I can’t see you on the wrong side of an argument.” I pause to see if he’d say anything. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing. I close my eyes briefly, attempting to speak past the tightness in my throat. “So that would make me, what? Some kind of evil spawn or something?” Reed’s body grows tense. “You don’t know if I’m half fallen angel or half divine angel,” I surmise thoughtfully. “But, you do know that I’m half human. My mother was human, the sister of my Uncle Jim. It’s just my father that’s the big question mark. You know he’s an angel, but you don’t know what side of your war he’s on.”

There is admiration in Reed’s tone as he says, “You are truly a dangerous creature, Evie. I am not Fallen; you’re correct, which means that your perception is remarkable. How old are you?”

“I’m almost eighteen,” I say, swallowing hard at having my suspicions confirmed. I close my eyes and order myself to breathe evenly.

“Remarkable,” he says the word again softly. “How did you piece it together?” he asks. I climb off Reed’s lap and sit beside him on the sofa while I explain Bosch’s
Paradise
panel and the angels battling in the clouds. “What will you be like in a thousand years if you’re this intuitive now?” he wonders aloud, amazement in his tone.

I know that I must look scared, but I’m angry, too, and it emboldens me. Standing up, I prowl agitatedly toward the counter. “So I can add immortality to my list of bizarre traits? Great, that ought to be interesting, watching all of my friends grow old and die while I never age,” I say with derision. “How old will I get?” I ask, leaning against the counter and looking at him. “You don’t look a day over nineteen.”

A slow, sexy smile forms on his lips as he says thoughtfully, “That’s about right. You shouldn’t grow to look much older than you are now.”

I forget to be angry for a second. I pick up a pair of wooden tongs to toy with as I say wistfully, “But you don’t know that for sure because I’m half human. I could drop dead tomorrow of a virus or something.”

“Not likely, given the fact that we both watched your knee repair itself in a matter of hours,” he points out. “Just like an angel.”

“So I can’t be killed?” I reply pensively.

“Everything can die, even angels; it’s just that it would be very difficult for you to do so. You would have to suffer tremendously in order to accomplish it,” he says in a gentle way.

“Awe-some,” I say sarcastically, setting the tongs down. “What other traits will I inherit from my father? Will I get wings or something?” I ask pessimistically.

“Probably,” his lips twitch with a suppressed smile, “but I don’t know for sure. We’ll have to wait and see.”

My eyes narrow. “You don’t have wings!” I say accusingly, “I’ve seen you with your shirt off, and they were clearly absent. Are they retractable or something?” I ask suspiciously.

“Yes,” he acknowledges with a grin.

“You flew up on my fire escape, didn’t you—the other night?” I ask rhetorically. He answers me anyway with a smug nod. “How does that work? I would never have guessed that you could just sprout wings at will,” I ask incredulously. I try to imagine the process, and it becomes as ominous as a scene from a horror film.

“You’ll see,” he replies, giving me no details, and for once, I think I am grateful that he doesn’t elaborate.

“You know, Reed, I’d rather not,” I reply, chilled.

I’m quiet for a while, pretending to look at discarded photos that are lying on the counter. A thought occurs to me, and I look over at him, asking tentatively, “Since you’re an angel, you know all about Paradise, I presume?”

“Yes,” he says, but his tone is guarded as he sits forward a little on the sofa, watching me.

“Tell me all about it,” I breathe.

“No,” he states flatly.

“Why not?” I ask as hurt invades my expression.

Reed frowns before replying, “Evie, you’re not entirely an angel—you’re also human. You possess something that no angel has ever had, or will ever have, so revealing the secrets of Paradise to you may not be…wise. I’m not even sure if I should discuss Sheol with you.”

“Sheol? What’s that?” I ask, knowing it wasn’t an especially nice thing just by the way in which the word was spat out, like it left an awful taste in Reed’s mouth.

“It’s a place, and it has many different names depending on which humans you talk to. Kukula is one, and the House of Falsehood is another name for it, but I think the name you will probably know well is Hell. I could tell you its name in Angel, if you’d like, but it’s the abyss where the Fallen dwell when they wish to hide themselves from us.”

I shiver at his words; he speaks of things I vaguely believe in. The concepts are there, but to have them pulled out into the light and validated is terrifying. “You said I possess something no other angel has ever had. What do I have that you will never have?” I ask in confusion.

“You have a soul,” he replies.