Unveiled: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Novel (The Dark Skies Trilogy Book One) (4 page)

I look around again to make sure he isn't about to leap out at me, then I creep even closer until I can just make out a drawing. Circular dots scatter the page connected by lines. Like a constellation or something.

Suddenly the sliding back door opens with a shing as my uncle steps inside.

At first, he doesn’t see me. There’s a rip on shirt sleeve, and he's holding a strange long-bladed knife made out of some sort of blue metal in his right hand.

"Astrid?" he freezes, startled to see me. I study his face and realize that he doesn't look angry. Believe me; I know angry. Instead, worry creases his brow.

"Uncle, I was just --" My mind races trying to formulate a believable excuse.

"Honey, I'm so sorry." He cuts me off before I get myself hopelessly tangled up in a lie. "There was a small brush fire near the tool shed. I was only gone for a few minutes. I hope you weren't too worried."

"Oh. Um. No, didn't even know you were gone."

I stand there waiting. Waiting for him to tell me to grab my stuff because we're moving again. And we have to leave tonight. In fact, we have to leave this very moment. But he doesn't say it. He just blinks.

"That was it?" I ask.

"What?" he frowns.

"Just a small fire? By the shed?"

"Oh. Yep. I caught it before it could do any damage." It feels weird knowing that he's lying.

"The news said something about a small meteorite.” I don't dare look at him. Instead, I gesture to the TV. “Maybe that started the fire?"

“Maybe,” he nods, moving through the living room into the kitchen with the knife at his side. He's holding it in such a way I can tell he doesn't want me to see it. "Were you going outside?"

I realize that he's asking this cause I'm dressed. "Yeah, I just pulled my jeans on."

He nods but doesn't say more about it as he sets the knife on the counter. If he realizes they’re Ruby’s jeans, he doesn’t comment on it.

We stand there awkwardly for a moment until I fake a yawn. "Okay then, I'm going back to bed."

He walks over to the big ugly plaid lounge chair that came with this furnished rental house. He sits, grabbing his iPad from the nearby side table, "By the way, be careful on the patio, that drainpipe fell off again."

I feel my cheeks redden. Maybe he does know I was out. Except I didn't take the drainpipe down.

"Must have been Tom," I smile, blaming the big stray cat. "That’s probably how he keeps sneaking in. He climbs the drainpipe."

"Probably," he replies with a warm laugh. "Damn cat. Goodnight, honey."

"Goodnight." I nod.

As I head up the stairs, I have a clear view of the kitchen. My eyes flick over to the blue bladed knife on the counter.

I pretend not to notice the red-black blood dripping from the tip onto the floor as I bolt up the steps as fast as I can.

U
pstairs
, I shut the door to my small but cozy room and collapse on my bed. The quilt underneath me is a field of purple and green flowers. It's meant for a 6-year-old, but it's one of the few things I bring with me to every new house. Yes, it's threadbare and ripped, in more than one place, but I can't get to sleep without it. It’s the only thing I have left from before the fire, from when my mom was still alive.

My uncle keeps telling me to pick out something else, and he'll buy it for me. I think he's pretty serious because once I told him I had my eye on this super expensive comforter from Anthropologie, that cost like $350, and he didn't even bat an eye when he told me I could get it. A couple of weeks later, when he asked why I hadn't ordered it yet, I lied and said it was sold out.

The alarm clock on my nightstand reads 11:11, but I'm so completely drained it feels like three in the morning.

I change into my super soft, cow print pajama pants and an Oakdale Prep t-shirt then crawl under the covers. I yank the blankets over my head and shut my eyes hoping to wash away the stress of the day and power down my brain for the night.

As usual, I am unsuccessful.

When it comes to quieting my restless brain, I've learned that it pretty much works on its own schedule. A crazy jumble of thoughts swirls around and around in my head.

I don't want to think about why my uncle was wandering around the canyon, carrying a body-shaped bundle and talking to creepy Sunglasses Man.

I really don't want to think about the glowing orb in the forest.

I really, really don't want to think about the blood dripping from the knife on the kitchen counter.

But the idea of moving again trumps everything else.

Here's what I know from experience -- when a meteor appears, we're seconds away from a freak out from my uncle that will inevitably end with us packing up and relocating to a different town and another school.

Which is why it’s extra weird he barely mentioned it tonight.

I have been the new-kid-in-school nine times. I used to hate it. I'd cry for ages, begging and pleading with him to let us stay where we were.

But, as the years passed and the list of towns grew, I eventually figured out the only good part of a fresh start is that you get to completely reinvent yourself if you want.

In geographic order from East to West, I have been a science geek in Upstate New York, a jock in Vermont, a drama club drama queen in Wisconsin, a burnout on the plains of North Dakota, an emo artist in Montana, an inky black-haired punk in Idaho and a snobby prepster in Washington State.

(Sadly, I have also done the pathetic and lonely loser outcast more than once, but let's not talk about that.)

Naturally, I spend a lot of time wondering why we move all the time. And I have to allow room for the idea that the story about my parents is just a fairytale.

Maybe I have an entirely different past.

Are we running away from something or someone? I don't know. And believe me, I've gone over every conceivable scenario. Maybe we're part of a mob family in hiding, or my uncle is a world-class jewel thief. Witness protection program, anyone? Nothing makes sense.

Lying in bed, pondering all this and more, I hear another low rumble, along with a strange humming, sort of like the approaching meteor sounded earlier tonight. My whole room shakes. Before I can scramble out of bed, the ceiling of the house gets ripped away like a tornado tore it off.

Then everything goes still.

Terrified, I lie frozen in my bed, afraid to move, staring wide-eyed up at a thousand stars glittering on a dark velvet curtain. I’m afraid, but also strangely comforted gazing at the beautiful night sky.

Then, out of nowhere, another flaming meteor plummets straight down towards me. A mere instant before it slams into my bed, I roll wildly onto the ground and scramble into the corner.

The meteor's impact crushes my bed.

It barely misses me, as it sets my tattered purple and green flowered quilt on fire. As flames lick the edges, and my beloved quilt starts to burn, I leap up and push the flaming rock off the quilt. I look at my hand, which should be burning, but they're fine.

When the meteor hits the floor, it instantly cracks in half like a broken egg, and a zombie crawls out. Then another zombie and another. They're swarming everywhere. Arms outstretched and moaning, more and more appear like the undead clown car of meteors.

“Astrid!” My uncle's face appears in the doorway, "Don't tell me you brought zombies home with you?"

Then, at the top of the stairs, I see a familiar silhouette that instantly fills me with terror.

It's the man in the crimson cloak.

The red of the fabric of his cloak is so rich and deep it almost looks like it's on fire. Shrouded behind the wide brimmed hood of the cape, I can’t see his face. But there's a sword, gleaming like liquid metal, in his hand.

My uncle is racing down the stairs. "He found us, Astrid. Run!"

But my feet won't move. “Who? Who is he?”

"Run!"

My heart nearly explodes in my chest as I sit straight up in bed.

Sunlight streams through the half open curtains. Drenched in sweat, I'm breathing like I just broke the world record for the 50-yard dash.

The clock on the bedstand reads 6:45 a.m.

I hate these stupid nightmares.

I've been having them since I was a little girl. The therapists all say it's post-traumatic stress from surviving the fire that killed my mother. Let's hope she outgrows it, they usually add.

Oh well, not just yet.

A warm, heavy lump weighs down my legs. It's Tom. The stray cat snuck back into the house during the night and is now curled up on my bed. Somehow his regal presence makes me feel a little safer.

I stroke his head as he turns his big green cat eyes toward me and purrs. "Well, at least, one of us got a good night sleep."

The morning air is brisk. I pull on my blue and yellow plaid uniform skirt and a white polo with an Oakdale Prep crest. But I can't find my blue school blazer.

When it was time for us to think about high school, my uncle figured I could get into a top private school because my grades are basically perfect, and I have always tested super well. It's not that I'm so much smarter than anyone else. Cause I don't think I am. I just read extra fast. Like freakishly fast. And I have a good memory. This makes taking tests easy.

When I got accepted at this posh private high school called Oakdale Preparatory Day School, we moved to California. Finally, someplace warm.

In fact, I just started my second -- get that, second -- consecutive year in the same school. I'm hoping that I might somehow graduate from this school next year.

After looking high and low, I give up on the blazer, scoop up my backpack and head downstairs.

My uncle is still sitting in the ugly plaid chair, iPad in his lap, exactly where he was last night when I went to bed. The only reason I know he didn’t stay there all night is because he's wearing a clean shirt and holding a steaming cup of coffee.

"Morning, honey." He smiles at me. "Sleep well?"

I used to tell him about the dreams. When I was little, I'd recount every detail of each nightmare. Everything the hooded figure in red said or did. He's like some reoccurring villain in a horror film.

Uncle would listen, wrap his arms around me, and reassure me that it was just a dream. But in the last year or so, the dreams seem to upset him more than they used to.

"I slept great," I reply brightly. I hate to upset him. "Guess I was exhausted. How 'bout you?"

"Like a rock," he smiles.

"What are you reading?" I ask.

"Treasure Island." He loves the classics.

"Again?"

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for pirates." He gestures toward the coffeemaker on the counter. "Just made a fresh pot of vanilla hazelnut."

"Awesome." I've been drinking coffee since I was 13. I pour myself a cup and notice that the bloody knife is no longer on the counter.

"Now, who wants chocolate banana pancakes for breakfast?" As he stands, Tom scoots past and slinks out the open patio door. "Please tell me you didn't let that cat in this house?"

"Not me," I say, closing the door behind the cat. “I thought maybe you let him in so he could snuggle with you in your chair.”

I ignore his dirty look.

Twenty minutes later, I'm shivering in a thin blue sweater as Uncle's ancient white pick-up truck rambles down the hill toward school. Everything about this truck is old except the stereo.

My uncle is a fanatic about great sound, which means I get to freeze my butt off while listening to the pristine sounds of jazz coming from one of the ten top-of-the-line car speakers.

Now I wish I'd grabbed a thicker sweater or something warmer to replace my lost blazer.

California weather can be deceptive. The sun might be shining all bright and cheery, but the coastal air will stay nippy until lunchtime.

As we start down the mountain, I look to the west where a vast blue plain spreads out until it touches the horizon. The ocean view from way up here is one of the things I love most about this house.

I reach over to see if any air -- warm or cold -- is blowing out of the truck's ancient vents. Nothing. I lean back and give the dashboard a good swift kick with the bottom of my blue high-top "dress code approved" sneakers.

My uncle's head snaps toward me, "Hey! Don't beat on my truck."

"You said you were going to get the heater fixed," I say, repeatedly flipping the heat button on and off. "And I'm freezing."

"You left your school jacket at the studio last night after class," he says, "Besides, you, of all people, should be used to the cold weather."

Before I reply, I lean forward to discover that my swift kick did the trick. Warm air now freely flows from the vents.

"Since the karate studio is turning a profit," I begin, "maybe we should get rid of this piece of junk."

His eyes stay focused on the canyon road in front of him. "This "piece of junk" has carried us all over the country. Plus, the old girl still has a few tricks up her sleeve. Besides, I’ve been planning on giving you your first driving lesson in this solid piece of American engineering."

“Yeah, no thanks,” I shake my head. I have zero interest in learning to drive. The whole concept freaks me out. I try to steer us back to the original conversation. "All I'm saying is maybe it's time for an upgrade. You know, newer cars have all sort of safety features that old trucks like this don't have."

My uncle is all about safety.

"Tell you what." He shakes his head and affectionately pats the steering wheel. "I'll think about getting a new car when you buy a new quilt for your bed."

"Done!" I say.

"You go first." He glances pointedly in my direction.

As the truck rambles out of the winding canyon roads down into the flat grid of the streets that makes up the small town of Ocean Grove, I change gears. "So Ruby and I were planning to head to the public library after school to do some research."

Without taking his eyes off the road, he asks, "What's wrong with the school library?"

This is an excellent question because the sad truth is the library at my private academy is far superior to the underfunded local public library.

But I knew he'd ask this, so I have a prepared response. "The Montrose Street Branch has a special Mythology collection. I mean, it’s giant. Way bigger than the school's section."

He glances at me as we roll up to a stop sign. "For your lit paper?"

"For my lit paper," I repeat.

The truth is Ruby and I have no intention of going to the library. The plan is to head to the mall to find some shoes for me to wear to the spring formal this weekend.

"I thought you were almost done with your paper?"

"I’m halfway done. I still need several more primary sources. You don't want me to flunk out of English, do you?"

This time, he doesn't laugh. "No, too many weirdoes."

"At the library?"

"In my experience, that's a favorite hangout for weirdoes."

"That's ridiculous. You're being crazy." Except, I have to admit he's pretty much right. More than an average number of weirdoes do seem to frequent the public library. Probably it's the free wifi and public bathrooms.

"You girls are welcome to come to our house. I'll even bake some ginger crinkles," he adds. "And then I'll take you to the public library after dinner."

"Ginger crinkles?" I ignore the library part and say, "What am I, 6-years-old?"

As we pull into the parking lot behind his karate studio, he turns to me with a smile, "Don't lie, Princess, you still love ginger crinkles."

Fine. I do. So what?

"Okay then, if I can't go to the library," Now I ask what I really want to know. "Can I go with Ruby and her friends to the spring formal?"

"That's a school dance?"

"Yes."

"Will there be boys?" he ask, his voice no longer light.

"Boys? Why would my co-ed educational institution allow guys at an all-school dance?"

He frowns at my sarcasm. "I don't like the idea of boys."

"But I'm not going with boys or the idea of boys. I'm going with Ruby and her friends as a group."

He doesn't say anything for a minute. "When is that again?"

"Friday night."

He hesitates then shrugs as we pull into the parking lot. "Let me think about it."

"Okay, but don't think too long. I have to find something to wear if you're going to let me go."

My uncle's karate studio is in a mini-mall that sits directly across the street from my school. He rents the space between a Latin grocery store and a dry cleaner.

How fantastic is it that my legal guardian is less than a football field away from me at all times? What teenager doesn't just long for constant and ever present surveillance?

My uncle has owned a karate studio in every town where we've lived. They've been everything from teeny-tiny little storefront studios to great big warehouse spaces.

Right before we got here, our current space was a yoga studio, so all he had to do was put in the mats and add a few punching bags.