NEWBORN: Book One of the Newborn Trilogy (11 page)

Wolf leans closer to my desk. “The threat
mankind faces is real. It exists in a single identity – that race
of thirsty individuals who feed off their brothers and sisters and
christens themselves vampire!”

I gasp involuntarily. Several people look
around. “Sorry!” I say in hushed tones to Wolf, who looks annoyed.
I gulp hard. “It’s just so crazy – all of this stuff. So crazy and
unbelievable!”

Wolf is watching me with satisfaction. He
says, “You better believe it. Ignorance leads to harm. Don’t be
ignorant of the vampiric race!”

I nod and stare back at the page, my thoughts
abounding in all directions.

“Ready for the next sentence?” Wolf asks.

“Yes,” I breathe. I realign my pen on the
page.

“As it is the sole duty of werewolves to hunt
and kill vampires, they have a tendency to group to areas populated
by covens,” Wolf says. My pen quickly restates his words on the
page. “The Olympic Peninsula, for example, is a part of the country
famed for its vampire inhabitants. What is lesser known is many
werewolf clans and tribes also populate its temperate, rainy shores
and inlands.”

Wolf waits for me to finish writing before
continuing. “So despite many fevered rumors and legends to the
contrary, the werewolf is not a foe of mankind but the opposite –
an ally of the weaker race. We –
they
– have only ever
hunted vampires. In the ancient tales, when humans spoke and wrote
about their fellows being attacked and bitten by werewolves, what
they were seeing was not werewolves maiming humans but werewolves
attacking vampires. From afar the two sights look similar.”

“Hold up,” I tell him, scribbling fast. “Okay
– go ahead.”

“Conclusion,” he states. “Fear is an asset to
the human race, as it is an asset to any race whose skin is not
tough and whose claws and teeth are not sharp. Fear is the survival
instinct that tells weaker races when to flee from stronger ones.
But fear can be misplaced. The fear that keeps humans from
understanding werewolves is misplaced. The fear driving humanity
away from its sworn protectors is misplaced. Posterity dwells not
on the side of such rampant misunderstanding and ignorance, but on
the side of those who would do well to keep their protectors close.
One can only hope with time and grace the human race will come to
understand, appreciate, and cherish their werewolf protectors. But
that happy time has yet to cross the threshold of existence into
actuality.”

After getting him to repeat a line or two I’m
finished. Rubbing my sore hand, I pass him the paper so he can put
his name alongside mine. “Geez, you’re a good writer, Wolf. You
said you can’t do anything else, but at least you can do this well.
Why don’t you like doing something you’re so good at?”

He shrugs. “I find it tedious. I’d rather be
hunt – err – sleeping,” he finishes, faltering and averting black
eyes.

“It’s fascinating learning about werewolves,”
I tell him. “They sound really cool. Sounds like humans should hang
out with them more often. Like, when is a human safer then when
she’s with a werewolf?”

Wolf gives me a wonderfully crooked grin.
“Exactly!”

Dr. Blakely walks
into the History 145 classroom and blinks at the rows of students.
“History 145: The American Revolution?” he mumbles, staring from
face to face with genuine ignorance. A murmur of accent flows
through the room. “Ah, good,” he says, and makes his way to his
desk.

With wavy, shoulder length silver hair and a
round age-spotted face, Dr. Blakely looks every inch the college
professor, from his leather elbow pads to his patched briefcase.
Setting it down on the desk, he opens it and begins to hand out
syllabi. His movements are slow and faltering.

“I apologize,” Dr. Blakely begins, “for my
absence on Tuesday. Had to have emergency eye surgery. Cataracts,”
he remarks in disgust, “A symptom of age and looming doom. You must
understand.”

The class gazes back at him in silence. On
one hand, Dr. Blakely seems friendly enough. On the other, there is
a somber note about him, as though he was mistreated as a child or
else is secretly a member of the Addams Family.

“Welcome,” Dr. Blakely says nasally, “to
History 145: The American Revolution. This class is about the roots
of our country, about its humble beginning. We were not yet states
but colonies, not yet sovereign individuals but subjects of George
III, and not yet an undivided, indivisible nation but a hodgepodge
collection of territories all of whom happened to speak the same
language.”

Reaching up, I free my hair from its tie. I
can tell this is going to be a long class, so I may as well get
comfortable. Straightening my hair with my fingers, I curl it
around my hand and toss it over my shoulder.

“I trust you’ve managed to get your textbooks
for this class?” Dr. Blakely asks. Students begin looking at each
other. Some nod, some shake their head, but most don’t answer.
“You’ll need these,” he continues, holding up each book in turn.
“They’re on the syllabus. We’ll be starting with David McCullough’s
fabulous depiction of the early years of the war,
1776
. Did
anyone read
John Adams
or
Truman
?”

Silence.

“Oh well,” Dr. Blakely says sadly. “There’s
always a chance. In any case, I think you’ll like this book. Try
not to think of it as a textbook. I don’t. I try to choose books
that transport you to the time of the subject matter rather than
simply listing facts and dates.
1776
is an example of a
transportational book.”

A boy near the back raises his hand.
“Professor Blakely?”

“Yes?”

“Didn’t the traitor Benedict Arnold fight in
the revolution?”

Dr. Blakely combs his silver hair with his
fingers. “We’ll be talking about Mr. Arnold. Yes, he did fight in
the revolution and despite popular slander was a great commander on
the battlefield. Vastly unpredictable and Napoleonic in his
approach to warfare. The details of his defection are complicated –
we shall touch on them later. First things first,” Dr. Blakely
continues, gazing around the room, “let’s start at the beginning. I
like to ask some simple questions to gauge how much you learned in
high school. For instance, who was the King of England during the
Revolutionary War?”

Another boy raises his hand.

“Yes?” Dr. Blakely says.

“Charles III?”

* * *

I’m losing weight. I haven’t even been near a
scale. I can just feel it in my body, feel it in my clothes when I
put them on in the morning – feel how the folds of my tank tops and
camisoles have more space than before. Feel how everything I wear
seems draped over me rather than on me.

In the mirror I don’t look unhealthy. I look
radiant and beautiful, even while my skin is paler than I have ever
seen it before.

It’s Friday morning. I have Fridays off, so
every weekend is a three day weekend. That’s if you count having to
do tons of homework as having a weekend. But I don’t mind the work.
I’ve wanted this forever – the college life – so I’m not going to
complain now I have it. I’m not that petty.

Kiri is gone for the weekend. She left early
this morning to go home. What she had planned as a serious party
weekend ended up being a go-home-and-get-stuff-I-forgot weekend,
which is fine. I’m pleased to have time to do work.

I find myself on a Saturday morning lying in
Kiri’s bean bag chair. Would it be lying in or lying on? I think
lying
in
– it is a bean bag chair after all. It has a
tendency to consume its occupant.

I’m debating whether to go to the dining hall
and try to eat yogurt or not. Even the thought of one little yogurt
makes me feel sick. I decide against the idea, noting I’ve been
here six days and I’ve only had two meals so far. Yet I don’t feel
hungry at all, just nauseas.

Grabbing my iPad, I begin reading again. I’ve
been engrossed in
The Great Gatsby
. I’m more than halfway
through the novel. It’s so much better than I remember. I find
myself identifying with Nick’s moral struggles between right and
wrong, friends and enemies, and dreams and reality.

I get lost in the novel and end up reading
for the rest of the afternoon. By dinnertime I have only two
chapters left.

Let Dr. James get on your case now
, my
alter ego remarks.

I have a feeling he will
, I reply.
I’m the scapegoat now. Officially assigned
.

Taking a break, I go to the bathroom to
refill my water heater. A kettle with a plug, my water heater is
one of my best friends. She allows me to have tea whenever I want
it. Without her I’d be forced to go to the dining hall. That’s too
much walking for my lovely tea. At least I’m drinking if not
eating.

Making a cup of my favored Twining’s Earl
Gray, I sit at my desk and think, allowing my eyes a respite from
the iPad screen. I sip my tea and ponder. My brain spins from
Gatsby
scenes to wondering where Gabriel is.

We haven’t made plans to meet again, besides
deciding we’d go vampire hunting. I assumed he’d show up again. I
assumed he’d find me again in that magical way of his. Assumed we’d
hang out.

But it’s been several days since the beach –
several days too long. Despite his arrogance and reoccurring
disdain for Immags and perpetual hatred of vampires, I find his
charm infinitely fetching. I picture him so easily swiping his
blond hair to the side or grasping his wand in his carefree
way.

Closing my eyes, I set my tea on my desk,
thinking. What if none of it is real? What if I’m insane or
hallucinating? What am I doing spending my first Saturday away from
home dreaming of the next time I’ll be hanging out with my wizard
friend? I should be institutionalized.

Standing quickly, I dash to my bed. Grabbing
my backpack, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s still weightless.
Gazing inside, I see it’s empty. A stab of horror guts me. No
wonder! Rushing to my desk I hug an armful of books and lift them
from the shelf. Carrying them over, I drop as many as will fit into
the backpack. Ready for the dream to end, I lift the backpack. It
lifts with my merest touch.

I flush with happiness.

I’m not insane.

Gabriel is real.

* * *

It’s evening and I’m walking around campus.
The light is slowly dying, enveloped in the distance by the
darkness over the trees abounding to the west. Evergreen has such a
beautiful campus – tranquil, lush, and green. Making my way to Red
Square, I walk slowly, enjoying the sights and sounds of late
summer.

The buildings here lend themselves to
modernity, their curvaceous structures inspiring new pathways of
thought and unforeseen revelations. Passing the college activities
building, I glimpse the Daniel J. Evans library clock tower not far
away, hanging over the campus like another moon.

Food had been the original plan. Forcing
myself to eat. But now that I’m out of my room, my thoughts consume
me and I’m distracted.

I reach Red Square – the center of campus.
This is the first time I’ve seen the campus at night. It’s
beautiful. The surrounding lights seem to echo off each other like
the laughs and guffaws of inebriated students in the distance. But
here – at the center of this world – I am alone. Happy to be
so.

I’m glad I came to Evergreen State College.
The choice between Evergreen and University of Washington had not
been easy. Dad pushed for UW – his alma mater. Mom pushed for
Evergreen to slight Dad. I chose this because I wanted to live in a
town not a city. I made the right choice.

“I’m not leaving!” I say loudly to the empty
square. Stretching my arms out wide, I twirl around, feeling my
freedom. “I’m not leaving you, Evergreen! The next four years of my
life belong to you! Please treat me well!” Dizziness assaulting me,
I swing to a stop, panting lightly. Geez, I’m out of shape.

“Shouldn’t you be making friends instead of
talking to yourself?”

I gasp the night air. Somebody is here!

“Lord knows this place won’t have me for the
next four years. Not for another year if I can help it. But I
admire the commitment you just made… I’m behind you, Nora. Won’t
you turn around and face me?”

Frozen blood filling my veins, I turn
around.

Gabriel White is sitting on a wrought iron
bench with his legs crossed and his arm resting across the bench.
He smiles at me, his wand twirling in the fingers of his
outstretched hand. “Surprised to see me?”

I shake my head. “No – well – maybe a
little.”

“Thought you’d never see me again?” Gabriel
asks, cocking his to one side. “Or – perhaps – wished it?”

“It’s not like that,” I tell him, “I just
wondered when.”

“Couldn’t be soon enough, I imagine.”

Geez, he’s so fucking full of himself. So
fucking arrogant. “I’ll have you know,” I begin hotly, trying to
sound convincing, “I wasn’t worried about when I’d see you next in
the slightest. School and homework and friends – yes,
friends
, Gabriel – have kept me busy lately. I’ve been
preoccupied.”

“I see,” Gabriel says, his brow furrowing.
“Well, that’s good.”

“What about you?” I ask him forcefully. “Have
you been making friends? If you’re so good at being social then
–”

“Of course not,” Gabriel answers, cutting me
off. “Of course I’m not making friends here, Nora. I have no
intention of making friends. My only intention is to murder those
who are already dead.”

The cold in his voice chills my heart. “Oh, I
get it,” I tell him. “Vampires!”

“Yes,” he answers, his face darkening. “Those
monsters who define the abyss of creation. I will be their
doom.”

Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I sit down
beside him on the wrought iron bench. Gabriel doesn’t withdraw his
arm from behind me but leaves it there – claiming me – his wand
still twirling amidst his fingers. Staring into the depths of an
illuminated turquoise eye, I’m enraptured.