Perennial (15 page)

Thursday, September 6

I emerge from a deep, dreamless sleep, enjoying the few minutes I experience in that foggy state between sleep and wakefulness. It’s a safe and peaceful time during which I forget about everything I’ve been through since Tuesday morning. I sense the early morning light penetrating through the window and hear birds singing to start their day. My lips curl into a smile as I imagine Mom and Dad together on a well-deserved vacation somewhere far away from Beaconsfield. My smile widens. I picture myself graduating valedictorian in June and looking forward to a summer job at a children’s camp somewhere on the East Coast. Things get really interesting when I imagine Lewis and me lying together on a Lake Michigan beach, the two of us enjoying a brilliant orange sunset, Lewis leaning over and pressing his lips against my neck as I try to maintain control over myself.

Normal things. Parents having fun together. A hardworking student achieving a lifelong goal. A summer job with kids. Kisses on the beach from the teenaged boy of your dreams. I think about normal things and the happiness they bring. I find it all so odd. Why am I so happy with such normal thoughts?

That’s when my smile fades and I emerge from my drowsy state, feeling refreshed but depressed at the realization that normalcy might be out of my grasp for the rest of my life. Normalcy is becoming increasingly foreign to me, which is why I crave it so badly.

Lying on my back, I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling as a word cloud slices through my head, the bold black letters settling in against the white background. Two words I know well: Lewis Wilde.

The vision ends. I sit up in bed still wearing the same outfit from last night. I remember Dad telling me to sleep tight. Then he left the room. I washed my face, brushed and flossed my teeth, and told myself I would lie down for a few minutes before changing my clothes. Well, I never made it to the pajama part.

I rub sleep from my eyes, reach for my glasses, and check the time: 5:30 a.m. Okay. I haven’t overslept, but it is time to get rolling, so I set my feet on the floor and realize my neck is sore. More importantly, the silver knife isn’t in my back pocket. It’s surely a good thing that I didn’t fall asleep with it back there, but panic sets in at the thought of where my trusty weapon might be, especially if I left it in the bathroom, and Dad came across it.

Damn. Where did I put it? And why is my neck so sore?

I stand and rub my face with my palms. Despite getting less than six hours of sleep, I feel energized, but where the hell is Blade?

I check the bed and desk but find no sign of the knife. Part of me still secretly hopes the past two days never happened and that today is Tuesday, the first day of school, but that wish explodes in my face when it occurs to me why my neck is so sore. Whiplash from the truck accident with Lewis.

I wonder how Lewis feels. My heart dances at the thought of seeing him this morning, but right now I’m on the brink of a panic attack. I have to find that knife. I’m all over the room now, checking the closet, under the bed, every drawer in the room. Nothing.

“Blade,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

I stare at the mattress and smile as a wave of relief washes over me. Now I remember. I walk over and lift the mattress, happy to see the shimmering silver knife resting exactly where I put it just before lying down last night. I drop the mattress back into place, leaving Blade tucked away until I have to leave for school.

Next I check my phone, hoping for a message from Lewis but not finding one.

Lewis. The word cloud with his name. What was that all about? It had to be some kind of message.

Come on, Alix. Think.

I figure a hot shower will clear my head and help soothe my aching neck, and I’m walking toward my bedroom door when I glance at my desk and see my tablet. There’s nothing unusual about where it is. In fact, it’s exactly where I left it last night. But that’s when I remember what I was doing just before the Heater attacked me. I was ready to search for information about the symbols on the handle.

I don’t have time for that right now, but I do feel a strong urge to search for anything related to Lewis Wilde. Thinking back to when he dropped me off last night, I knew he was irritated when I asked him for his grandparents’ address. But what scared me was the troubling vision during our second kiss. Lewis’s white light changed to a wall of fire. That’s happened twice. Once with the homeless man in Oval City, who I
knew
was evil. The second time it happened with Lewis, who
isn’t
evil. There’s no way he’s a bad person. It’s just something I know in my heart. Last night I took the strange vision as a possible sign that I was already losing my abilities. Well, now I know that’s not the case, so why would I read Lewis as a wall of fire?

According to Vagabond, Light is good and Fire is evil. It’s that simple.

But I must be missing something because I love Lewis Wilde, and I doubt a demon slayer would fall in love with a demon.

I mean, there’s no way, right?

I sit at the desk and use my tablet to search the words “Lewis Wilde, Eastland, Michigan,” nervously picking my nails as I scan any results connected to Lewis and the neighboring city he claims to hail from. There’s nothing remotely related to the Lewis Wilde I know, but I’m not too worried about that. I’m guessing most high school kids don’t show up in Internet searches unless they’ve either been in serious trouble with the law or excelled in certain areas of high school life, especially sports. Despite his incredible body, Lewis is no jock, which is yet another reason I’m so attracted to him.

Next I think about the address he gave me for his grandparents’ house. I remember it being over on Bloomfield Street, but the numbers escape me, so I search “Wilde, Bloomfield Street, Beaconsfield, Michigan,” making the assumption he’s living with his paternal grandparents.

I must be wrong on that assumption, because once again I get nothing related to what I’m looking for.

What was the exact address? It takes a few moments, but the four numbers come to me when I remember that they totaled eleven: 3116. I rub my hands together, take a deep breath, and type “3116 Bloomfield Street, Beaconsfield, Michigan” into the search bar.

There’s no match, just page after page of unrelated results containing some or all of the search string.

“Beaconsfield Middle School.”

Nope.

The three nearby and wealthy Bloomfield communities: “Bloomfield Hills,” “Bloomfield Township,” and “West Bloomfield.”

Nope.

And no direct map link to Lewis’s grandparents’ specific address, not even after I add our zip code to the search and try again.

My stomach begins flipping and my throat goes dry. I’m rubbing my chin in frustration, wondering why Lewis would lie about where he’s living. Maybe I typed in the wrong street number. I consider that, but no, I remember specifically chunking the 3116 in order and noting that the numbers totaled eleven. I know he said Bloomfield Street, and Bloomfield is indeed a Beaconsfield street. In fact, it’s two streets down from ours.

Back in middle school we used to have fun finding our houses on Google Earth. Of course, all you have to do now is Google a specific address, and the street-view option automatically appears at the top of the results page. According to my search, Lewis Wilde’s grandparents’ house doesn’t exist, so I make a decision to take a little detour down Bloomfield Street on my way to school this morning.

Dad’s already gone when I leave the house at six thirty. It’s another beautiful morning in Beaconsfield. Driving down Maple Grove in the Explorer, I roll down the windows and enjoy the cool breeze, cloudless sky, and bright sunshine, nearly forgetting the fact that Lewis popped into my life out of nowhere almost exactly forty-eight hours ago.

I nervously run a hand through my hair as I approach Bloomfield Street and glance at the glove compartment, where Blade rests inside. Turning onto the 1000 block of Bloomfield, my nerves build. I pay attention to the even-numbered addresses on my right. Some of the largest, most expensive Beaconsfield homes are on Bloomfield, and my jaw drops at the sight of such wealth and luxury. All of these multistory homes have huge expanses of lawn and rest atop natural rises, making them more impressive from street level. I have to crane my head over the passenger seat just to see the roofs of some of these beasts.

I pass through a quiet intersection and coast into the 3000 block, part of me expecting Lewis to show up in the middle of the street like he did two days ago. As much as I would love for that to happen, it doesn’t. Instead, a couple of old men drive by in the opposite direction, one in a Lexus and the other in a Mercedes, and the next thing I know I’m driving past 3100 Bloomfield, followed by 3110 Bloomfield, both huge, stately homes that look far more expensive than something even a lifelong automotive engineer in suburban Detroit could afford.

It’s official. Lewis lied about where he lives.

That’s all I can think about. My heart rate spikes, so I pull over to the side of the road and park beneath a giant, leafy maple tree to think. Why would Lewis lie to me? Does he just not want me to know where his grandparents really live? Part of me actually gets that. After all, it’s only been two days. But somehow I know that’s not the reason. Does he even have grandparents in Beaconsfield? Is he even living in this city? Yes, Lewis has to live here, because the school district has strict residency requirements that help maintain its stellar national reputation. You have to live in Beaconsfield to attend its public schools.

I grab my phone from the middle console. No messages. I think about firing off an angry text to Lewis, but the investigator in me knows I need more information. I’m giving Lewis the benefit of the doubt for now, but if he’s lying about where he lives, there’s a good chance he’s lying about other things.

Ugh. It’s like I can feel my heart breaking. Just when you think you’ve met Mr. Right, you learn something that makes you realize he might be Mr. Ass.

So I’m sitting here curbside, trying to stay strong and not cry, when I glance in the rearview mirror and spot a white Beaconsfield Police car creeping up alongside me.

Great. My heart seems ready to fly out of my mouth. If I get a ticket for something and the officer runs the plate, he’ll see my dad’s name, and it’s like every cop in Michigan knows who my dad is, meaning Dad will ask me what I was doing on this street and not driving straight to school.

Just relax, Alix. Breathe.

The officer stops his cruiser beside me, powers down the passenger window, and says, “Everything okay, Miss?”

“Um … yes, sir.” I look him in the eyes and keep my hands on top of the steering wheel where he can see them, something Dad told me to do if I ever got pulled over. “I’m on my way to school.”

“Beaconsfield High?”

“Yes.”

“It’s back that way.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder.

“Oh,” I say. “I guess I took a wrong turn. It’s only my third day. I’m not feeling great this morning.”

“I see,” he says, studying me. “Well, there’s no parking on either side of this street. Take a look around.” He’s right. I’m the only car parked curbside on Bloomfield. “Can you get to school on your own? I can follow you if you want.”

“No, thanks,” I say, horrified at the thought of a police escort to school. “I’m fine, Officer. I know where to go now. Sorry for parking here.”

“Not a problem. Have a good day at school.” He pauses. “You know, if you’re sick you should think about taking the day off. My wife’s a teacher and always complains about students who come to school sick and end up getting other kids and teachers sick.” He shrugs. “Just a thought.”

He gives me a friendly wave and drives off.

I’m watching the back of the squad car when the white light blinds me and delivers another black-on-white word cloud. This one consists of a single word: “Eastland.”

My vision clears. I check my phone. It’s six forty-five, still forty minutes before first hour. Eastland is Beaconsfield’s eastern neighbor. Of course, it’s also the city where Lewis told me his parents’ house is. Lewis also said he went to Eastland High through last year, meaning there should be plenty of students and teachers there who know him.

I pull into a neighboring driveway and back out to head to school, thinking about the perfect attendance record I’ve had since sixth grade, when I came down with the flu and missed a week of school. Prior to that I’d never been absent, and to this day I’ve never been tardy to a class. It’s a streak I’m proud of, a streak that reflects the discipline and strong work ethic Mom and Dad drove into me over the years. Mom had several years of perfect attendance as a middle school teacher, and I don’t remember the last time Dad took a day off work. Maybe he never has. I feel guilty with what I’m about to do, but I’m not exactly the same Alix Keener I was a few days ago. After all, I have to solve a murder and destroy a leader demon by the end of tomorrow night.

My plan is risky, but my life seems to have turned into one big risk over the past two days. So instead of going to Beaconsfield High this morning, I decide to skip first hour and head east, looking forward to walking the halls of Eastland High School.

Traffic is light. I pull into the student lot behind Eastland High just after seven, giving me about twenty minutes to get inside and ask about Lewis. I don’t have a student parking permit, but right now I could care less, and I park in the first spot I find.

Like Beaconsfield High, Eastland High School has a national reputation as one of the finest high schools in the country. Eastland was actually one of the possible cities on our shortlist of places to move to. In the end Dad and I chose Beaconsfield because the high school there ranks even higher than Eastland’s. Of course, now I know the real reason why Dad wanted Beaconsfield. He bought the house for a steal.

Eastland definitely has money, but as I look around the student lot, I notice a slight decrease in quality between the students’ cars here and those at Beaconsfield. The Eastland cars are nice overall and surely more expensive than those found in more than 99 percent of America’s public high school student parking lots, but I don’t see nearly as many Lexus, BMW, and Mercedes models here as I do at Beaconsfield High. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, of course. In fact, what I realize as I approach the rear entrance of the modern school is that I would feel far more comfortable in a community like Eastland than I do in the filthy rich fantasy land known as Beaconsfield.

Damn. We should’ve picked Eastland, Dad.

The school is huge. The wide hallways are a welcome change from the narrow old confines of Beaconsfield High. Countless students roam the halls, most of them wearing clothing that, like their cars, reflects upper-middle-class status. I blend in far more easily here than I do at Beaconsfield, although I do draw some curious glances from kids who surely realize they’ve never seen me before and must think I’m a new student.

I figure the main hallway is near the front of the school, a theory that proves correct as I pass through a huge glass atrium and reach the main offices bordering the front of the building. I spot a row of classrooms on the opposite side of the hallway. A short, overweight but pleasant-looking older female teacher is standing outside one of the rooms. She’s smiling behind enormous glasses and greeting passing students, a telltale sign of a teacher who actually enjoys her job.

I cut across the hallway and approach her.

“Good morning,” she says. “We haven’t met, have we? I’m Mrs. Leonard.” She extends a plump hand. “And you are?”

“Um … Stephanie.” I shake her warm hand. “Stephanie Flanders. It’s my first day.”

“Hmm. I haven’t received any new student notifications for my classes today. Am I on your schedule?”

“Oh no,” I say. “I wish you were, but I was wondering if you knew a friend of mine who went to school here until this year. His name is Lewis. Lewis Wilde. Do you remember him?”

“Lewis Wilde,” she says, scratching the side of her head. “No. I don’t recall the name. Did he have me as a teacher? I’ve been doing this for more than thirty years and never forget a name.”

“I’m not sure. Probably not. I guess I have the wrong teacher.”

“I’m afraid so,” she says. “Anyway, welcome to Eastland High, Stephanie.”

I thank her and move on, eventually taking a right down a narrower middle hallway packed with students and lined with lockers on both sides. I ask two younger male teachers talking together near a bank of lockers if they either know or have ever heard of Lewis Wilde. They haven’t.

The ten-minute warning bell wails. I need to ask some students about Lewis, preferably seniors, so I remind the male teachers that it’s my first day and ask if there’s a senior locker section anywhere in the school. There is, and it’s located in the neighboring hallway. I thank them and rush off.

I draw plenty of stares in “senior row,” and for some reason I find it difficult to decide who to ask about Lewis, so I stay in the middle of the hall, moving forward with the masses and glancing at the students huddled around their lockers, trying to find a candidate who appears kind and helpful.

I quickly find two, a girl and a guy, and it’s their hair that catches my interest. Well, that and the fact they won’t stop staring at me, especially the guy. It’s as if he’s expecting me. He looks familiar. I know him from somewhere, but I can’t remember exactly where. The girl is drop-dead gorgeous. She has shoulder-length, shiny, and straight jet-black hair with stunning purple streaks that make her look like a rock star. The guy is clearly her boyfriend, but I find that a bit strange. He’s tall and skinny, with curly brown hair and geeky glasses. Still, there’s something about him that draws me in.

“Hi,” I say, sliding out of the cattle herd.

“Hey,” the girl says. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Sure,” she says. “It’s a big school. What do you need?”

She exchanges glances with her boyfriend, who keeps staring at me but hasn’t uttered a word.

“I was wondering if you know my friend,” I say. “Lewis Wilde. He’s a senior over at Beaconsfield this year, but he went here through junior year.”

They look at each other again, shrug, and shake their heads.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve never heard of him, and I know who everybody in our senior class is.” She makes an apologetic face. “I’m Brooke, by the way. Brooke Sparks.”

“Stephanie.” I shake her hand. “Stephanie Flanders.”

For some reason the guy stifles a laugh at my name, but when he introduces himself I understand why.

“Hi … Stephanie, is it?” he says, smiling. “I’m Roman. Roman King.”

My stomach drops a mile. Roman King. The guy Vagabond mentioned as being a recent addition to his team. Vagabond said we would meet soon. And now I remember why the name Roman King sounded familiar when Vagabond mentioned it.

“Roman King,” I say. “You’re the guy who stopped that kid from shooting people at a football game last year, aren’t you?”

“That’s me.” He raises an index finger in front of his nose to quiet me. “But that was a year ago. No offense, but I don’t like talking about it.”

“I get it,” I say, noticing a shiny silver band on his right ring finger. There are a lot of silver rings in the world, but this one is simple in design and looks identical to the one London Steel had on at Zeppelin Coffee. Also, like London’s ring, I sense something special about Roman’s silver band.

“Anyway, it’s nice to meet you … Stephanie,” he says, again smiling at the sound of my pseudonym.

He extends his right hand. I seize the opportunity to shake it, hoping his ring gives off the same special warmth as London’s.

It does, and I think Roman can sense it, because as the pleasant warmth of his ring spreads through my hand, a flash of beautiful white light fills my head, followed by a vision of Roman fighting alongside London Steel. They’re in a dark space full of fire, the two of them covered in yellow demon ooze as they battle a large demonic beast that looks like a spider the size of an elephant. Unfortunately, another disturbing wall of searing orange and red flames fills my field of vision and blocks out everything. Then Roman releases my hand, ending the brief but revealing reading.

I’ve confirmed that Roman is indeed a warrior. Vagabond’s warrior. Roman King has slayed demons with London Steel.

“Are you okay, Stephanie?” Brooke asks, looking at me and then at Roman.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I adjust my glasses and catch my breath.

“Listen,” Brooke says. “I’m almost positive there was no Lewis Wilde here last year, but if you want to know for sure, just ask somebody in the attendance office to search his name on the computer.”

“Great idea,” I say, wondering if I should say anything to Roman about the things we have in common. “Thanks, you guys.”

Another obnoxious bell blares through the school. Frantic students scatter in all directions. The tinny, high-pitched sound nearly makes me cover my ears.

“That’s the two-minute bell,” Brooke says, scrunching her nose at the sound and closing her locker. “Who do you have first hour, Stephanie?”

Her question catches me off guard. I have no answer, so I stand there like a stunned animal.

“She doesn’t go to school here,” Roman says. “Do you, Stephanie?”

“What?” Brooke says, giving him a look. “How do you know that?”

“Vagabond,” I say. It’s the first word that comes to mind. Roman smiles. That’s all the answer I need. “Nice ring, by the way.”