Unveiled: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Novel (The Dark Skies Trilogy Book One) (9 page)

I lean back and miss her attack by inches.

I circle my weapon around the other way. She blocks it again. Back and forth, we exchange strike, block, strike, block. Yet, no matter how hard I hit her, she does not go down. Her strength and ability are unnatural.

Finally, my concentration breaks, and she knocks the bar from my hands, then thrust kicks me against the wall. She pulls out a short knife, a thick dagger. It must have been holstered behind her back.

The metal resembles bronze, except it has a strange red glimmer, almost the color of blood.

She jabs it out, and I sidestep the attack. The blade is unlike any metal I've ever seen. It almost looks like a beam of light. She comes at me again with the knife.

I retreat as she swings back and forth trying to cut me. I'm almost backed into the corner again when the tip of the blade slices my arm. There's a deep cut. It hurts, but it’s nothing my healing ability won't fix in a few seconds.

Before I can recover, she raises the dagger ready to slash my throat. I close my eyes, expecting the worst. There's a thwonk as she melts to the floor.

I open my eyes to see a wide-eyed Ruby holding a folding chair.

The crazed salesgirl falls sideways through the curtain of a dressing stall where she lies unconscious on the tile floor.

"Oh my God! Do you think I killed her?" Ruby asks, trying to look at the salesgirl without getting too close.

The regular warm glow of the dressing room lights pop back on washing out the sickly green.

"I doubt it. You didn't hit her that hard."

"Why was she attacking you?"

I look down at the eerily still body of the girl. "I have no idea."

Ruby’s eyes flick down to my arm. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

“Your arm.” She points. “She cut you.”

Warm blood trickles slowly down my arm. I’m shocked to see that my skin is not healing. I’ve never not healed before. Was there something different about the red-bladed dagger she used?

“Here,” Ruby hands me a wad of tissues from the pack in her bag. “Put pressure on it.”

Just then a deep male voice yells, "This is the police. Come out with your hands up."

Ruby immediately panics. "Oh God! The cops. Twice in two days."

How exactly do we explain what just happened? No one will ever believe me.

The voice, now closer, barks, "Come out here right now, girls!"

Ruby and I exchanged looks, and I take her hand. Slowly we make our way out of the dressing room.

I don't know why I'm expecting to find an entire battalion of police officers, all pointing their guns at us -- probably seen too many cop shows -- but there's just single one officer. He has a gun, but it's still tucked firmly in its holster.

"We had a report of a physical altercation at this location," he informs us flatly, placing a hand on his firearm.

"I was attacked," I blurt out.

"Attacked?" he asks. "By whom?"

In my mind, I try to piece together some logical story about what just happened.

"By her. The salesgirl," I explain, turning and pointing back into the dressing room. But it turns out, a logical story won't be necessary.

The salesgirl is gone.

T
en minutes later
, Ruby and I are sitting in separate rooms in the mall's security office.

The cop, Officer Fitzgerald, a heavyset forty-something with a potbelly and a kind face, turned out to be a decent guy. He seems familiar, like one of my friend's dads, all dorky and kidding around. Even though he's a real cop, the mall cops let him use their office for big things like crazed salespeople trying to kill random customers.

I finish explaining what happened -- leaving out all the unexplainable parts -- for the third time.

He furrows his brow and asks, "And that's the truth? The whole truth and nothing but? She just attacked you for no reason?"

"Yes," I reply from the leather couch in the security office that smells faintly of cigarettes, shoplifting, and desperation. "That's the truth."

Obviously, I'm not going to tell him what really happened. So, um, this salesgirl with the freaky red eyes came at me. Like he'd believe that.

Truth be told, I could care less what Officer Fitzgerald believes, I just don't want him to call my uncle.

"And then," he nods. "Your friend hit the saleswoman with a chair?"

"I know it sounds crazy but what were we supposed to do?"

Officer Fitzgerald leans back, and I can tell he's mulling this whole thing over. After a moment, he asks, "Was there anything unusual about the salesgirl?"

I hesitated. "What do you mean?"

The spot on my arm where she cut me aches. When we first got to the security office, the receptionist brought my antiseptic and bandages. Even though my wound is all cleaned up, it still hurts.

"You know, was there anything out of the ordinary?" he asks, never taking his eyes off me.

Was this my opportunity to tell him about her weird eyes or her superhuman strength or how the ceiling lights went green? I wonder if perhaps he knows something he's not saying.

I blink a couple of times. "No. Nothing unusual."

"Are you sure? There must have been something?"

"Um," I begin, uncertain as to how much to say. "She had a weird tattoo. On her neck."

"Weird how?" he asks, flatly.

"Just a strange shape. That's all."

He nods, studying my face. "Well, there's no trace of anyone - dead, alive, or otherwise -- in the store. We've called the manager, and they're trying to track down their employee," Officer Fitzgerald says with a shrug. "I don't know what happened in that dressing room, but your friend has the same story."

"Maybe, cause, like, it's the truth," I suggest. Although, of course, it's only partly the truth.

“Okay, then.” He stands. “I need to call your parents."

"Oh." If my uncle finds out about this, I'll be wishing that salesgirl had killed me. "Why? We were just headed back to school. And it's the middle of the day, so our parents are all at work."

"Because you're minors, I have to release you girls to an adult," he explains, sliding a pen and piece of paper across the table to me. "What's a phone number where I can reach a parent?"

I pick up the pen and hold it above the paper. If my uncle finds out about this, I will never be able to leave the house again. The small, fleeting glimpses at freedom that I currently enjoy will instantaneously vanish.

Coupled with the meteor, odds are, we'll pack up and move again.

I start to write down his cell phone number, but at the last second, I transpose the last two numbers. Oopsy. This way I have plausible deniability because I can earnestly claim I just made a mistake.

I slide the paper back to him and ask, "Can I use the bathroom."

As he picks up his cell phone, he nods. "Sure. Through that door."

I get up and head out of the little office. I reach up and rub the throbbing cut on my arm. It aches. It feels very strange to have an unhealed cut.

Turning the corner down the hallway, I spot Ruby sitting on the couch in the waiting area. I silently motion for her to follow me. She tosses the O Magazine she's reading on the beat up coffee table and slinks after me.

"Let's get out of here," I whisper.

"Thought you'd never ask," she replies as the two of us dash toward the front of the office. Walking quickly, eyes straight ahead, we hurry out the door.

It takes every ounce of strength I have not to break into a full on sprint as soon as we're in the mall.

"Just act normal," I say, glancing over my shoulder. No one is chasing after us. Yet.

"I am acting normal," Ruby replies. "Astrid, what is going on? Why did that woman attack you?"

"I don't know."

She's silent for a moment, then asks, "Was there something up with her eyes? Or was that just the light?"

I didn't realize she saw that much. The only thing I can say is, "Probably just the light."

Luckily, no one comes after us. We don't talk about it anymore on the ride back to campus.

The rest of the school day is pretty much a waste. I pretty much hit autopilot through history and English as my brain keeps circling back to the crazed salesgirl with the weird eyes. Why was she trying to hurt me? Did she want to kill me? I'm doing my best to not completely freak out.

And I know I should call my uncle.

But if I do, then we’ll be packed and on the road to the next town before you can say - overreact much?

Also, it goes without saying that I'm super excited about my study date with Chad in the library after school. But, after the weird events at the mall, I seriously consider canceling it. I’m pretty frazzled.

But, after turning everything over in my brain, I come to the conclusion that if my life is about to be uprooted again, then I might as well spend a half hour with beautiful Chad Olson.

After all, he's not trying to kill me.

As soon as the final school bell rings for the day, I grab my backpack from my locker and head to the always-empty girls' bathroom on the second floor near the math lab.

I just want a few minutes to myself.

This remote lavatory is one of the few places I can kill fifteen minutes without Ruby giving me point-by-point instructions on exactly what I should do and say around Chad Olson.

I love Ruby. She's the best friend I have ever had. But I'm just not in the mood to deal with her right now.

After I drag a brush through the tangles in my pink hair and dig out a long forgotten lip gloss at the bottom of my bag, I make my way to the library.

I stop just outside the entrance to draw in a deep cleansing breath in the hopes of calming the butterflies in my stomach. I don't know why I'm such a weirdo. Chad probably won't even show up anyway.

When I first walk into the library, there's no sign of him. Clusters of kids are scattered at various tables doing homework or killing time until their ride home shows up.

This private school library, with its honey blond wood everywhere and soaring two-story wall of windows, is by far the best library of any school I've ever attended. I circle the perimeter of the large space and still don't see him.

Disappointment washes over me, and I realize how crazy I was to think that someone like Chad Olson would actually want to meet me after school.

I'm such a complete and total idiot.

Spinning on my heels, I slink back toward the entrance with my head hung low when I hear a voice from over by the reference section.

"Hey. Astrid."

I turn to see Chad waving at me from a table near the back door with his books and notebooks spread out in front of him. I realized I didn't see him because a cluster of 9th-grade band geeks blocked my view.

"Oh, hey," I say, heat rising in my cheeks as I move toward him. "I didn't see you. I thought..."

"You thought what?" he smiles, and my knees nearly give out.

Now, what do I say? I thought you bailed on me. "I thought maybe I was late."

There are four seats at this table -- one next to him and two across. Where do I sit? After a moment's deliberation, I drop my backpack into the chair kitty-corner from him and take the seat directly across the table.

"So did you have a chance to do any of the lab report?" I ask casually, pulling my folder from my backpack.

"Oh, um," he begins. "A little. Not much."

"Okay, let's get started," I say and force a smile. For some reason, my heart dips a little in my chest. He's probably just one of those super cute guys who wields their charm like Excalibur, luring sad, pathetic, loser girls like me into helping them with their homework.

"Is that a footprint on your folder?" he asks.

"Yeah. Long story."

When I look up, he's staring at me.

"What?" I ask, suddenly wondering if there's something on my face.

Realizing that I caught him staring, he looks away and says, "Oh sorry. I was just noticing your eyes. I've never seen eyes that color before."

In the right light, my eyes look almost neon blue. Which is weird. "I have unusually bright pigment. I guess it runs in my family."

"I think they look cool," he replies, and I feel my inside start to melt.

"Thanks," I nod because I can't think of anything else to say. "We should probably start with the anatomy chart."

"Right." He picks up a chewed pencil.

"I got halfway done before lunch," I say, digging mine out of my bio folder.

"Is it true you have a blackbelt?" he asks. "In karate?"

I laugh because that's the last question I was expecting. "Actually, I have two blackbelts. One in karate and one in tae kwon do."

"That's so cool!"

Boys are usually super impressed by my martial arts pedigree. Not in a way that makes me more appealing or attractive to them, but rather in a way that makes me some sort of a cool, weird, boyish girl who can probably kick their ass.

"Well, it's not like I had much of a choice," I explain. "My uncle -- that's who I live with -- runs a karate studio. So studying martial arts is pretty much mandatory at my house."

He's listening and nodding, and I realize he's even more beautiful close up than from a distance. You sort of figure that when you get up real close to an attractive person, you might notice a flaw or two that isn't visible from a distance.

This is not the case with Chad.

"I wish my parents would let me do martial arts," he says with a sigh. "But they're pretty much peace loving hippies. My dad's a forest ranger, so we're all about nature and sunshine and granola at my house. Which is awesome. I want to be a ranger just like him. But they'd never go for karate."

"Actually, a big part of martial arts is about resolving potentially violent situations in a peaceful manner."

"Really?"

"Oh, sure," I say because this it totally true. Then I add, "Of course, there's a whole other part dedicated to becoming a highly effective killing machine."

He laughs, "Which are you? A peaceful resolver of violent situations or a killing machine?"

"I like to think I'm a little of both," I reply and notice that he's staring at me again. "But I'm not sure I'm either." Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can feel myself blushing. I force myself to look away and ask, "So the lab report?"

"Oh. Right," he says, flipping through a stack of rumpled school papers jammed into his history book. By the condition of his textbooks, school does not appear to be a top priority for him.

"Astrid," I hear a familiar voice calling my name. I turn to see Ruby standing by the checkout desk twenty feet away, motioning for me. "C'mere."

Oh jeez. I shake my head no. Her timing could not be worse. "I'll text you when we're done."

She makes an insistent face and says louder, "I need to tell you something. It's super important."

I turn back to Chad and say, "I’m sorry. My friend, she's... I'll be right back."

"Okay," he nods.

I hurry over to Ruby. "What!?"

She grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the library entrance. "I've come to warn you. Meegan McGovern is on the warpath. Carly Birch told Lizzy Grover that she is totally pissed and wants to rip your face off."

"So?" I say as we make our way out into the hallway, and I get a sip of water from the fountain. "Rip my face off? I'd like to see her try."

"Meegan is going to freak if she finds you two together." Ruby looks at me like I'm a moron. "Apparently, Chad broke up with her at lunch."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't think that has anything to do with me."

"What are you, an idiot?" she asks. "He told Bret Marlowe who told Paul Gordon that he wants to ask you to the spring formal."

"Me? He said me? He used my actual name?"

"Well. Okay. Not exactly," Ruby confesses. "Not in so many words, but he said he wants to ask someone else. Someone other than Meegan."

"You're crazy," I say, starting back toward Chad "You know that, right?"

"Who else could it be?" Ruby asks.

"It could be any girl within a ten-mile radius. Now please let me get back to my study session."

I catch my reflection in the glass of the door as I storm back inside. My hair is sticking up funny on the left side of my face, so I stop to flatten it back out. Also, there's a smudge of something on my cheek. Was that there the whole time! I rub it off and take a look at my reflection.

Is it possible Chad Olson might ask me to the dance? I mean, why not? I'm as pretty as Meegan. On a good day, anyway. And way nicer. Everyday.

I take another deep cleansing breath then head back toward our table like I'm totally chill. But I pull up short as I come around the corner of the reference stacks, and I see that the table is empty.

Chad is gone.

So are his books and backpack. Only my stuff remains scattered across the tabletop. My heart sinks.

"Great," I mutter as I slump back into my chair.

He bailed. Of course, he did.

A white paper on the floor catches my eye. I immediately recognize it as Chad's anatomy worksheet. It must have slipped off the table when he was racing to pack up his stuff so he could get away from me as quickly as possible.

I reach down to pick it up. His handwriting is small and hard to read.

There’s a whole bunch of little doodles in the margins including a baseball bat and little sketches of baseballs. He's drawn a pretty decent car and motorcycle.