Forbidden (17 page)

“Whoa, even I felt that one,” Uriel said. He was sitting on the floor at his uncle’s feet playing with a pet mouse. He tossed strawberry blond hair from his eyes and stared at Michael.

Michael shot his cousin a look that executed all further interruptions. He cleared his throat and continued, “I can’t detect what she is or who might have sent her.”

“That hardly explains your emotional spike,” Katarina mused, noting before the others that Michael’s heart rate was near comet speed. Her connection to her children’s emotions left them little room for secrets.

“Well, this
is
extremely disturbing,” Gabe said, coming to Michael’s rescue. “Obviously, he’s worried like the rest of us. More so. Not only did Sophia see Michael in spirit form, she tried to question Casey James about his near-death experience.” An appropriate flush colored Gabe’s cheeks as he remembered his failure to shield Sophia while his brothers worked. “And, well, it seems to me she’s rather suspicious, even for a human.”

Dimitri frowned; he was deep in thought and tugging on his eyebrow, a habit he’d been trying to quit. After a long moment, he motioned for Michael to take the seat across from him. He leaned forward, studying his son who had become uncharacteristically edgy.

“Michael, tell me what you truly believe about this girl.”

Michael forced steady breathing and then came to a decision. It was better to get this over with rather than tiptoe around secrets in a house full of angels with emotion sensors like burglar alarms.

“Dad, my best guess is that she might be … some kind of … test … for me. I mean, it’s just a theory but …” He shrugged, uncertain.

Dimitri’s eyes narrowed. “You are choosing your words very carefully, son.”

Michael knew he should elaborate; he should reveal what he was obviously hiding. He just couldn’t.

“I don’t know anything for sure and it wouldn’t be fair to openly accuse her. So, well … I’ve made it clear she’s to leave me alone. I mean … not that she’s, we’re not …” His adrenaline spiked again, and his jaw clenched. “She won’t be a problem anymore.”

Wow, that was subtle
. He was fumbling around like an insecure human with his first crush.
Get a grip, man
.

The family considered everything Michael told them. His parents exchanged knowing looks, and then Dimitri stood, offering a hand to his wife. Time for their nightly chess game.

“It would be prudent to let one of your brothers watch over Sophia, Michael. If you expect to join the Halos in the winter, there can’t be the slightest hint of inappropriateness. You must stay away from her. Understand?”

It was for the best, Michael told himself. Problem was, the idea of anyone else watching over Sophia didn’t sit well with him. But it was not an order he could decline. He wanted to reassure everyone that their real identities were safe, that there was no danger of exposure and being sent home in shame, and yet he couldn’t force the words out. He simply nodded and made a mental resolution.

He wouldn’t allow
anything
to bring Sophia St. James to his attention again.

Chapter 16

The Hot-Blooded Boys of Summer

My days toss and turn like a restless ocean and I am adrift in quiet anonymity. A solitary buoy in the wake of passing ships, wanting to join them but somehow sensing something different is coming along.

Okay, so I’m homesick for the Pacific. What can I say?

No, it’s more than that. Since that night under the stars with Michael, I’ve felt a strange craving for something, an ache to have something warm on my skin. Sometimes the craving is deep inside and I feel impatient, like I’m pacing the widow’s walk in my mind, eyes cast to the horizon for … what?

Who would be coming for me?

Michael and I are no longer enemies, circling each other and brandishing suspicion like weapons. He has retreated behind the lines, and I am The Girl Who Became Invisible. Not once in three weeks has he looked at me. Not once have I ask one of the zillion questions I have. The astronomy packet is long forgotten. My grade and I suffer through class like stubborn soldiers receiving potshots from the sniper in Mr. Cummings’s disapproving eyes. I refuse to complain. I refuse to ask Michael for help.

It’s amazing how someone becomes larger than life the moment you decide to ignore him. Life is funny that way. Major suckage.

And so I am mooring myself between Bailey and Rachel, two support posts who want nothing more than to ride life’s party boat. I bob along on the ship of fools and fall into a comfortable routine: the café in the mornings, school, afternoons at the
Gazette
, and Friday nights at the football games where I take photos. Miss Minnie and Mrs. Cooley have used several of my photos for the
Gazette
and the
Haven Hurst High Newsletter
. Connie Caulfield, the real estate agent, hired me to photograph a cottage she is putting on the market, and voilà, I am a freelance photographer.

My first portrait sitting is scheduled with Mayor Jones but it’s been postponed. The Harvest Festival is fast approaching and apparently goats from the petting zoo escaped and ate the announcement flyers. The mayor and town council are in a tizzy.

So here I am, making a concerted effort to stay focused on school, which my academic advisor deems “a most wise decision.” Stanford is a lost cause, so I have
lowered my ambition bar. I’ll take any college that will take me. With that settled, my rough waters have become smooth sailing, and I drift along until one Thursday morning when the wind changes.

*  *  *

The town square is a brilliant palette of autumn decor, compliments of the Red Hat Society, the town council, and Mother Nature. Boas with rich fall colors frame the storefronts while scarecrows lounge on bales of hay or hold signs that welcome prospective tourists. Maple, elm, oak, and sweet gum trees surrender to the dropping temperature with a firework display of ocher, red, and gold exploding along their branches.

The café is a beehive of activity because this week’s football game is against our archrival from Danbury and most everyone is pumped up for it. Along the sidelines, where I try to take photos but spend most of my time avoiding wayward linebackers—I’m sure Annie Leibovitz never had this problem—I put two and two together and deduce that our team sucks. Duffy is proved right; he is the best player, which isn’t saying much.

We lost the last two games in a row and Duffy has been pouting all morning. Bailey is on the outs; apparently telling Duffy to have some “testicular fortitude” about losing didn’t go over well. Sarah Cooley has been coddling him, and Bailey’s jealousy is reaching epidemic proportions. She is jabbering like she downed a case of Rockstar, so Rachel and I drag her out of the café before she and Sarah start a slap-fest. If they have PMS at the same time, fur is gonna fly.

So here we are, the entire senior class standing on the sidewalk looking up in wonder because an hour ago the sky was blue, clear, and calm. Fall is ushering in deliciously cool weather that colors our cheeks and brightens our eyes. Just now, fat clouds tumble over one another like they’re in a hurry to get somewhere. The sun is a sizzling egg yolk and the clouds devour it, shrouding us in a murky, decomposing yellowish gray haze. The wind picks up, but it’s not the playful kind that makes branches sway. It’s slapping and whipping, a whirling dervish on speed. Leaves in the park spin into dusty spirals.

Sarah hugs Duffy’s arm and says, “Oooh, dirt devils!”

Bailey looks at Harper Rose. “Tell your pet to stop riding her broom around town.”

Sarah flips her off and Bailey flips it back. I yank her arm down.

“What’s
with
you guys?” I whisper.

“Sarah’s pissed ’cause somebody dropped a house on her sister.”

I bite back a laugh and look at Sarah but my eyes clash with Michael’s. He is staring at me for the first time since our fight on the hill. My stomach flips. His look is urgent and says, What’s happening? Somehow I know he doesn’t mean Bailey and Sarah’s catfight. But what?

And then two things happen at once. The wind dies, dropping the leaves like dead birds, and I hear
it
.

We
all
hear it.

A deep rumbling of twin engines reverberates across the square and echoes off the old Colonial buildings. Revved louder, the roaring pops and snaps like angry beasts. All eyes shift to the corner by my house where two European sports cars roll into view.

The first one is a shimmering black Lamborghini—long, sleek, and low to the ground. A tantalizing paint job of yellow, blue, and red flames lick up the sides. Heat from the undercarriage simulates their movement, giving the illusion that the car is on fire. The windows are illegal black, and a spoiler cuts across the trunk like a fin.

A menacing shark stalking fresh meat
.

The second car is smaller and concave, hovering over the ground like an Egyptian scarab on steroids. Its hood is black but the body is polished aluminum that sparkles like a prism. The rims are high-gloss aluminum with razor-sharp spikes that glint like daggers as they slowly roll along. The windows are dead black eyes.

As the cars prowl around the corner onto Heritage Street, the guys murmur appreciation and drift to the edge of the sidewalk in a testosterone trance. The engines shift to low growls, and the unmistakable sound of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” blares from the Lamborghini. They idle before us like they’re watching and waiting. A chill rushes through me and I hug my arms.

Duffy lets out a whistle. “Can … you … believe it?”

“What are they?” Bailey asks, breathy.

Even Jordan the Leerer and Pacer, who can find fault in anything, are impressed. They tell us the first car is a Lamborghini Diablo.

“Less than three thousand made,” Jordan says. “5.7 liter, 492 horsepower, 427 pounds of torque. Reaches zero to sixty in just under four seconds.”

“I can’t believe it,” Pacer murmurs enviously. “That one’s a Bugatti Veyron, the Pur Sang.”

“Pure Blood,” Jordan explains. “Only five cars made at two million a pop. I didn’t know there were any in the states.”

Pacer rubs his hands together like he’s ready to devour a pizza. “Guys, you’re looking at two of the fastest cars on earth.” As if on cue, the engines rev.

“How fast?” Holden asks.

“The Diablo, over two hundred miles an hour. The Bugatti, just over two fifty on a straightaway.”

Okay, this is pretty cool but my fascination wanes and all I can think to say is, “Boy, are
they
lost.” Someone snickers, and I look around. Everyone is fixated. Even Michael, except his expression isn’t one of curiosity or awe but of raw anger. He is flushed, and his eyes are tight as though he’s trying to destroy the cars with a look. I know this look, having been on the receiving end more than once. Pure, unadulterated rage.

“Back in Black” rises from the speakers and the cars move along, the guys following like children trailing the Pied Piper. All except Michael, who marches to his truck. Some of the guys try to pile in but he kicks them out. They hurry over to Duffy’s truck and he peels out with half of them hanging off the back. He follows the European cars to school. When Michael wheels left toward his house, I can’t help but wonder what’s bothering him. For once it doesn’t seem to be me.

By the time we pull into the parking lot, the sports cars are parked. The Lamborghini has its doors raised like black wings, and the Bugatti Veyron’s open to the sides. Four guys dressed in black are standing by the cars. Everyone drifts over to check them out. Rachel heads inside and Bailey grabs my arm as I start to follow.

“Let’s just go,” I say, not wanting more drama before lunch. “We’ve got two tests and—”

“Are you crazy? Come on, before Sarah and Lizzanne mark their territory.”

The four guys turn around as everybody approaches, and my eyes are inexplicably drawn to one in particular. Black hair and olive skin, he’s just the type of Italian hunk you’d expect to find standing next to a Lamborghini. He’s wearing black designer jeans and a charcoal mock turtleneck that molds to his body. Lean and muscular, the zero-body-fat look of a
GQ
model.

Aside from that, there is something different about him. His hands are causally buried in his pockets but his eyes slice through the group, dissecting one face after another. Our eyes meet and he stops in recognition. My heart snaps to attention, pauses, and then squirms like it wants to get out.

This guy is hot
. No, more than just hot. It’s like an animalistic and brooding sort of hot. But it’s … deceiving, an Italian facade. His beauty is a weapon used to demoralize lesser guys and anesthetize girls. Hypnotic sea-foam green eyes glow against
his tan complexion. But when I stare into those eyes, a tiny thread of fear ripples through me, and I realize I have taken an involuntary step backward.

Noticing my retreat, the guy softens his smile, giving me a look of pleasant surprise and … what? Relief?

Everyone is talking about the cars, except Sarah and Lizzanne, who are multitasking by playing coy while overtly flirting. The guy with green eyes seems indifferent. He watches me with amusement, like we’re sharing a private joke the others aren’t privy to. His eyes drift down my body, slowly taking inventory, and then he nods approval as though he is pleased I turned out so well. Blood gathers in my cheeks, and I press my lips together to kill a smile.
The alpha male, used to having his way
.

It’s fascinating to read so much from his expression and to think that I know what he is thinking, like we’re having a visual conversation. He lifts an eyebrow and inclines his head like an open invitation, so I accept. What the heck?

My eyes roam up and down in silent assessment.
Very nice
. Usually I’m not blatantly obvious when I check a guy out. But this guy … I don’t know. I just want to visually devour him, to examine him like a poem. I take my time perusing and then …

I am overcome by a strange sensation of awareness.
Do I know this guy?
He is like a song I can’t … quite … sing, but recognize enough to hum. It’s on the tip of my brain …