Sever (The Ever Series Book 3) (34 page)

“Mr. Casey, seeing as no one else has any guesses …”

My eyes briefly focus on the instructor.

“Titian. Sixteenth century.”

“Thank you, Ever. Your enthusiasm for art history is always appreciated.”

My face descends into a mask again. Today. The end of forever … the end of waiting. Finally it has come.

The insufferable buzzing that tells these children when to come and go sounds. It is a noise I have found causes either salivation at the illusion of freedom or dread for another hour of superficial learning that their peers of centuries past would have deemed a luxury. The passing of time means nothing to those like us who remain unmarked by it. For these humans, though, it is everything. They will live and die by it, even if they may not often contemplate it.

And for one human here, this girl I seek, her last moments are ticking by with inevitability.

I look at the range of emotions that play across the young humans’ faces as I traverse the halls. I recognize them—awe, hatred, jealousy, fear, embarrassment, lust. Love I have never witnessed for myself. But why would such an emotion, if it truly exists in the manner described by human poetry and literature, be reflected into my eyes as these creatures stare back at me?

I do not regard myself with self-pity. I have had an eternity to appreciate and accept my nature. It is, in fact, how I chose my moniker for this period of human history. I shall go on forever, doomed to be ever vigilant. I frown. For some reason this makes me think of my quarry, and for a brief and irrational moment I wonder if this watchful young human senses that something is coming to snuff out her brief existence.

Could she possibly sense her end?

After all, her end
is
why I am here. She is an anomaly—human, but apart from the rest of humanity. She has no peers, which makes me wonder: if she hears the voices, does she think herself mad? Does she believe any of what she hears or sees? Over time, I have discovered a growing number of these vessels in asylums. Still, if she is here in this school, walking amongst her peers, then she must realize that her ability is not mere madness, but power.

Another classroom. Another instructor. This particular paragon of human tutelage is more insecure and supercilious than the last. He asks me a question well beyond the scope of the lesson plan, and I could simply ignore him, but what would that grant me?

“String theory.”

My answer silences him before he moves on to more pedestrian matters. If I were to tell him the true implication behind string theory, which his mind barely grasps to begin with, I imagine he would deem it a fabrication. The true nature of this universe is something most humans would place firmly in the category of fiction and fancy. But that is their proclivity: to choose certain fiction and fancy over others merely due to what they are told. To be sure, some can see beyond the stricture of human perception, but those fall into a miniscule minority. The ones with the boldest ideas—those closest to the truth—have been, and will be again, scoffed at, marginalized, or persecuted.

Time passes, and when the fourth school period approaches, I experience another wash of shamefully human emotion. The predator inside me emerges from its dormancy, and before the bell has sounded, I am moving. I glide through the halls toward my ultimate destination, arriving before anyone else. Sitting at my empty table, I wait for the space to fill up around me, my presence concealed by the tumult and chaos of the lunch hour. The prickle of anticipation coursing through me is not entirely unusual, but it is perceptibly keener this time—the last time I will have the need to hunt a human, or at least one whose mind and body have not been claimed by the other side.

A sudden rush washes over me, and what had remained hidden from me is uncovered. The blur of images startles me, hundreds of pairs of human eyes ticking over this girl. I concentrate, searching for her mind. Then a smile spreads across my face as I find her thoughts. I look to the right, and my eyes lock with a passing student, his own thoughts casting my image back upon me. My smile frightens him. I
look
like a predator. I look
evil
. Good. Be afraid. Run along. Which he does.

I turn very slowly to see her with my own eyes, rather than distorted through the muddy lens of human perception.

…
my personal version of hell … indoors. No escape. Just strangers. Don’t care if I sit alone for the rest of the year
…

My chest tightens at the sight of her, and I grimace, willing myself to believe that the overwhelming sensation I feel is the monster inside me straining to break free and blot her out where she stands. Her small, fragile hands have gripped the edges of the tray so tightly that her knuckles are bone-white. She looks around, her eyes never landing upon the curious faces around her. She does not seem to notice them, believing they would never notice her. She shifts again, and I hear the faintest squish of wet fabric pressing against rubber. Her shoes are not meant for this climate. She is picturing where she came from—an opulent community nearly a thousand miles south of here. She is a new student. I frown again. A mere thousand miles away, yet invisible to me until this moment.

I study her face: the small, heart-shaped mouth, an oval jaw, wide, olive-green eyes, and unusually pale skin tinged with pink. Her trembling, though it is imperceptible to the human eye, is evident to me, and I listen closely to find her rapid, shallow breaths and racing heartbeat. She is absolutely terrified. I feel a swell of gratification.
That
is why I was unable to locate her presence until she was nearly on top of me. Fear makes these creatures exceedingly difficult to track. Her eyes shift again, searching, while she remains oblivious to the swirl of fascination following her.

I’d do ’er
.

The loutish voice that echoes in my head fills me with rage. A desire to kill, torture, and maim floods my every fiber. I turn away from my prey, and my eyes flicker to the source—an arrogant bastard of a man-child who flaunts his bravado at every turn. I had paid him no mind until today, but the image festering in his mind causes an unnatural sensation in my abdominal cavity.

Is this what humans mean when they say they feel sick?

The tautness in my chest is something I comprehend. After all, rage
is
an emotion I am familiar with. It was what kept me from going mad before we escaped into this dimension. Rage, when it has purpose and focus, is useful. However, this abrupt inability to focus on my singular task is not useful. I quell my inexplicable fury by imagining my hands snapping this boy into two pieces.

Then I sense the girl’s movement and hear the soles of her shoes and the accompanying squish as they make contact with the linoleum. She is walking rapidly, with more certainty than she had a moment ago, having seen my otherwise vacant table. There are only seconds before she reaches me—my prey coming straight to me, as though drawn. Nearer and nearer to her end. All I need do is rise and look into her eyes once and unleash the fury spanning more than a thousand human millennia into her mind. She will be dead before she even registers my appearance.

Suddenly she slows, having caught sight of me. She does not even begin to wonder why I might be the sole occupant of the table among a sea of tables teeming with life. Instead, she is thinking I will fail to notice her. I can smell her now—the scent something akin to cinnamon. I also taste her relief at finding solace. Then his voice jerks my attention away.

…
actually going to sit with that freak. If he thinks he’s gonna screw her first, he’s so wrong
.
She’ll be riding my stick by the end of the week
—

My rage is incalculable. I … want … to … destroy … him. Instead, I freeze, finally recognizing the motivation behind my impulse. The desire to annihilate this loathsome beast is nearly identical my instinct to protect the one who needs no protection: my sister and fellow warrior Audra. However, the urge to protect this fragile-looking girl is different. It is nearly irresistible.

Indecision—another long-dormant sensation—courses through me. What if I am
wrong
? What if she is not the one?

More conflicted than I have felt during my infinite existence, I rise. Then, with more speed than advisable, I flee from this small human without looking back. Yet with every step, I feel an increasing dread. I
wanted
her to come nearer, though not to demolish her mind. No, instead I wanted to hear her speak, and as soon as I exit the cafeteria, I stop and linger, listening to her thoughts as she begins reading a book she has produced from her bag.

She is following the characters in the book with such clarity and empathy that her mind does not register the words. Rather, she sees the characters and scenery as though they were a motion picture. I watch, through her imagination, as they journey across a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Something in her conceptualization of this place reminds me of the dimension we escaped. But how could it be possible for this girl’s thoughts to bear such a resemblance to our world? It is not possible. I shake off my suspicions and continue watching as the scenes tumble from her mind.

“
Hi
!”

I stiffen, so absorbed in the girl’s visions that I momentarily lost sight of everything else. Ashley Stewart, a girl from the morning art class, is standing, awaiting acknowledgment from my prey, who turns slowly and assesses the girl’s wavy light brown hair, brown eyes, and nervous smile. In the dark-haired girl’s mind, I watch as the Stewart girl begins to prattle on.

Stupid bet. I’m going to kill Josh
.

As her internal ramblings echo in my mind, I stiffen with the unassailable certainty that the girl sitting before her has read her thoughts as well with no effort. Alarm courses through me. This has never happened. How could I have let her go?
I should have killed her
! Then her voice cuts through my thoughts.

“I’m Wren.”

A voracious need grips me, and I give in to the urge to walk back through the double doors and watch her with my own eyes.
Wren
. Named after a small bird. Another sensation, one I can only guess is panic, descends over me. What has become of me? On the brink of a monumental step toward victory, and I have suddenly and inexplicably lost my will?

Taking a seat in the corner, I will the children around me to ignore my presence as I desperately try to identify the source of my failing. In the meantime,
Wren
—the girl I came here to kill—has gathered her belongings and is following after her newfound friend. I listen to the thoughts of the waiting group as the two girls approach, unsettled by the echo in my quarry’s mind. However, she is overwhelmed and cannot seem to make much sense of the competing thoughts as her eyes shift from face to face. This offers me one bit of respite. Despite whatever quirk of evolution that has allowed her the capacity to read the minds of those around her, her ability is limited.

By the time the two girls reach their destination, the others are staring at my prey as though she is an exotic animal they have witnessed only in a zoo. I grimace as Joshua Tarabocchia, the boy who goaded Ashley Stewart into approaching my quarry, continues staring with unabashed interest. When Wren notices him, my muscles tighten as I listen to her internal debate over his attractiveness.

They begin asking her questions—something I could not hope to do without exposing myself—and I read her thoughts, finding myself hungry for details of her existence before this moment and how she has evaded my detection. Her mind briefly travels to a small, white-stucco house with a red-tiled roof tucked into a mountainous region of Southern California not far from the Pacific Ocean. During the course of a few minutes, I watch as she grows more and more disconcerted with her moment at the center of attention. Tarabocchia appears to be salivating every time she glances in his direction, and when he catches her eye, she looks down again.

…
comfort in the anonymity of going unnoticed most of the time
…

Her thought causes my lip to curl. The entire world—two worlds in fact—are bearing down on her, and this girl thinks herself invisible? Is she as daft as the boy? When I laugh bitterly, a boy at the next table looks over at me with fright in his eyes. I glare, and he immediately looks away.

When my attention returns to the girl, her body is frozen stiff, only her eyes flitting around. I try to read her thoughts, but it is as though she has disappeared. I search and finally lock onto a terrified fragment.

…
never, not once, been able to pick up anything from someone without direct eye contact
…

There is only one explanation:
she heard me
. But how? How could this fragile creature pick up an errant thought from my mind, which is impenetrable? I watch as she continues to search the faces around her for any sign that it was one of their voices that she heard. After several moments, her small hands begin to pick apart the paper napkin in front of her with nervous energy. Then, finally, her breathing begins to slow. Good. She thinks it was her imagination.

I get up slowly and walk into the empty hallway. With no one to see me, I shift my physical location to the vehicle in the parking lot. I might have walked—at a human pace—out of the school buildings and to the parking lot, but with no witnesses to see me “vanish,” I have never seen a reason to imitate humans’ slow movements. When the bell rings, my attention becomes riveted on the girl.