Reborn (2 page)

Chapter 2

Present
day

I
shudder awake to a blaring alarm clock. I squirm,
tangled up in forest
green sheets, and squint against the sunlight streaming through the open
blinds. I don’t remember where I am. Then, I feel Max nuzzle my neck, running
his hand underneath my red tank top so he can massage my breast.

“Morning,” he
murmurs in my ear, his voice still husky with sleep. His facial hair tickles my
face. I try to bat him away.

“What time is
it?” I groan, still shielding my eyes from the sun. “I have class at ten.”

“Eight,” Max
tells me. His hand travels to my back, the pressure of his fingers making slow,
gentle circles over my shoulder blades. “We have plenty of time.”

“Not now, Max. I
just woke up from a bad dream.”

His fingers
pause. “About what?”

About
what happened at the bonfire six years ago. “I don’t remember,” I tell him.

“Poor
Tink,” he murmurs just as he’s lifting my shirt up and bringing his lips to my
breast. “
This
will make you feel better.”

“M-Max,” I
stammer, but the protest is weak, the caress of his tongue against my nipple
dissolving the lingering image of the man from my dream—the man from the
woods—burned onto my retina. Max’s fingers resume their delicately firm
massage. I moan in objection when his lips leave my breast, but Max captures my
mouth in a long, deep kiss. I hope my morning breath isn’t too bad.

I half sit up so
that Max can pull my shirt up over my head. He’s slept shirtless in just his
blue plaid boxers. I press my hand against the hardness underneath, and he
groans.

“Roll over onto
your stomach,” he growls. I obey. Max brushes my straight blonde hair aside and
kisses the nape of my neck. The hands kneading into my back have already told
me what’s coming, but now he follows them with a trail of kisses down my spine.
It’s this part I both loathe and crave. I totally mesmerize him, and that turns
me on. But I know why he’s told me to lay on my stomach.

“Are you turned
on, Tink?” I feel his warm breath on my ear. “Do you want me?”

God, I hate that
nickname, but I still have to whisper, “Yes.” I’m on fire down below, and I can
feel my wings stirring, ready to erupt through my back. I’m kind of like the
Incredible Hulk—only instead of turning into a big, ugly green monster when I’m
angry, my wings awaken in response to many strong emotions—rage, desperation,
humiliation. Arousal. Thin and translucent, with splashes of midnight blue and
dark purple that fade to black at the tips, they’re more like a butterfly’s
wings than Tinker Bell’s. I’ve had them ever since our encounter with the
mysterious winged man who has haunted my dreams since I was a child.

Max makes room
so that they can freely unfurl from my back. He lightly touches the soft tip of
one with his fingers. Do I find his obsession with them flattering or
demeaning? He enters me from behind just as this question pops into my head and
douses my fever. Because I’m not sure what the answer is. It may be a little of
both.

I hadn’t
intended to resume casual sex with Max this semester. We met last year at a
Halloween party and bonded over our obsession with the paranormal. When he told
me about the psychic women in his family, I thought I had finally found someone
who would be accepting of my secret. I’m still not sure I really
believe in
psychics, but then again, who believes in humans that have wings? We barely
gave ourselves time to shed our costumes completely when I gave my virginity to
Max in this very dorm room. Sure enough, he eagerly accepted my wings. At first
his fondness for them exhilarated me. It had been a long time since I let my
walls down around anyone—especially after what happened with Jimmy—but around
Max a few bricks came loose. Eventually I realized Max and I didn’t click
beyond sex, and I couldn’t compete with my wings for his affection.

Most girls would
have bawled their eyes out over a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
if their friends-with-benefits didn’t call or text them all summer, but I just
felt like a weight had been lifted. Either from anticipation or panic, I’m
pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a moment when I saw Max’s text last
night asking me to come over. I should have said no.

I’m so absorbed
in my thoughts I give a start that isn’t an orgasm when Max cries out in
ecstasy ten minutes later, his final thrusts deep and forceful. He eases out of
me, and we sprawl in his bed for a few minutes, both sweaty and breathing
heavily, before I crawl over him and search for my clothes.

“I don’t want to
move,” he sighs as he watches me dress. My wings have retracted, so I easily
slip on my bra and tank top.

“Maxwell
Johnson,” I admonish, hands on hips, “do
no
t cut your first class of the
semester.” I hope my playfulness conceals the irritation and restlessness
lurking underneath. “It’ll set a bad precedent.”

He laughs and
reluctantly sits up. He’s still naked. He has broad swimmer’s shoulders and a
fit body. With his twinkling blue eyes, careless brown hair and the splash of
freckles over his nose and cheeks, he’s attractive in a boy-next-door but
unremarkable way.

Max catches my eye
as I’m studying him. “Siobhan, I really like spending time with you. I care
about you. You know that, right?”

I think he wants
to believe he cares about me. He wants to believe that this is more than
fucking. I just nod, stroke one of his cheeks with my hand and plant a chaste
kiss on the other.

“I know. I’m
going to be late. Later, Max,” I say as I disappear into the dormitory hall.

Seven minutes
later I’m climbing the driveway winding up to the Greek Quadrangle. An
emerald,
manicured lawn hugs the incline on either side of it, and at the top sit nine
fraternity and sorority houses. Each is a red brick building with a flat slate
roof and concrete patio. The Gamma Lambda Phi house is the first one on the
right. Sunlight glints off our patron goddess Nike’s milky white wings and
tumbling red hair in the stained glass portrait in the window. She holds a
green laurel wreath in one hand and a bronze chalice carved with the Greek
letters ΓΛΦ in the other. Our alumni donated it to the house the
year I joined, but we almost had to take it down because it looked too
religious. In the end, the university let us keep it because Nike’s dove-like
wings are a part of the mythology:
She flew over battlefields, crowning war
heroes with laurel wreaths and rewarding them with eternal fame and glory.
Next door to us
is Alpha Rho, our on-again, off-again nemesis, and across from us is the Sigma
Iota fraternity.

I cross our yard,
planning to sneak through the back door, and nearly collide with the neon green
blur coming out of it.

“Little! Weren’t
those the same clothes you were wearing last night?”  My big sister’s amber
colored eyes assess me with mock disbelief. Her lime green spandex capris and
tank top flash under the mid-morning sun as she jogs in place. A matching
sweatband sweeps her auburn hair away from her freckled face. She holds the
door open for me.

I smile brightly
even though I want to roll my eyes at her. “Come on, Victoria. You know I was
just with Max,” I chirp as I slip past her. “Going for a run?”

She nods. “Want
me to wait for you?”

“Thanks, but I
have class.”

“Okie dokie.” A
breeze whips by me when Victoria takes off. “Remember, we have a board meeting
later. Five thirty. My room!” she tosses back over her shoulder.

“Yes, Madam
President!” I call out behind her.

Thankfully, the
downstairs is empty, and the house is quiet. I don’t think I’ll have to explain
my whereabouts again.

On the second
floor, I swipe my card key to get into my room. I peek inside, but my roommate
isn’t here. I strip down with my door still slightly ajar, wrap myself in a
white towel and head back out to the bathroom. I shower quickly, wetting but
not shampooing my hair. When I get out, it droops around my face in damp, dark
blonde tangles. I tug a comb through it, studying myself in the mirror above
the sink as I do so. Two large eyes stare back at me. They consume most of my
face, and along with my wide pink mouth, sometimes I feel like a frog. My
driver’s license says my eyes are blue, but they’re actually a deep violet.
Without eye makeup, I look too ghostly, so I swipe on some mascara and
eyeliner.

A half hour
later, I’m out the door again, this time wearing a clean pair of skinny jeans
and a dark purple t-shirt with paisley Gamma Lambda Phi letters. The panicked
click of the small heels of my black sandals against the sidewalk echoes my
urgency to get to class on time. I bring my schedule up on my phone to see what
building and room my first class is in. “World Myths and Legends” is a red
square spanning from ten to eleven a.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It’s
in room B10 of Frasier Hall, the humanities building.

I race into the
classroom with only one minute to spare. I find an end seat in the back next to
some guy I don’t know.

“Hi!”
I exclaim, giving him a friendly smile and holding out my hand. “I’m Siobhan.”
He looks at me blankly, as if he’s never shaken a hand before, and grunts
something that sounds like it could be “John” or “Josh” before turning back to
the front of the room. Dropping my hand, I also twist in my seat to face the
front. I guess I can cross
him
off my list of potential study buddies.

I
had a class in this room last year—it’s one of the larger lecture halls that
seats one hundred and fifty students, and about one hundred of those seats are
taken, mostly by young women. Even though it’s a morning class, it’s a popular
elective to fulfill history credits. This is all probably because of the reputation
of the charismatic man looming behind the podium: Dr. Eric Mars. He’s over six
feet tall and looks like someone peeled him off a page of a Sexy Lumberjacks
calendar rather than a history professor. He has a full head of charcoal black
hair and a slick mustache and goatee. The sleeves of his maroon dress shirt are
rolled up to his elbows to reveal two thick forearms. The podium just might
break in two from the pressure of his massive hands gripping it on either side.

“Happy
Monday,” Dr. Mars says. His wide, friendly smile reveals a set of large,
perfectly straight pearly whites. The room quiets down instantly. Many of my
classmates, including a few of the guys, are perched on the edges of their
seats, their jaws hitting the floor, their eyes fixed on our professor with
sloppy admiration. “I’m Dr. Eric Mars, but please feel free to call me Eric.
Welcome to ‘World Myths and Legends.’ I hope you’ve all read my email and have
brought a copy of the syllabus with you…”

I forgot to
print one out, so I bring it up on my phone and zoom in. He continues to talk
through typical first-day-of-class stuff—expectations, text books, course
materials, homework, exams, grades. I only half-listen. Not even this
larger-than-life man can distract me from this morning’s confusing reunion with
Max. Our relationship—if I can even call it that—fizzled out with distance and
the summer sun. I should have left the charred, lifeless remains alone. Now I’m
going to have to break things off with him in person.

“Unfortunately,
the teaching assistant for this course is bad news,” I hear Dr. Mars saying and
glance up from my phone back to the front of the room. “He’s a huge slacker.
You’ll be lucky if he even shows up for office hours.” He smiles at someone
sitting in the front row as if sharing an inside joke and gives a rich, hearty
laugh. “He knows I’m just kidding. You are actually very lucky to have Mr.
Jasper Hart as your TA for this course. Mr. Hart is a third-year PhD student in
the history department, and a very bright young man…”

Dr. Mars is
saying something else about the perfect Mr. Jasper Hart, but now I’ve
completely tuned him out. Our teaching assistant stands to face us and nods his
head politely. My heart has leaped into my throat. I can’t breathe. I
really…can’t…breathe. A flood of terror overwhelms me, and I won’t recover
unless I run out of this room. No, unless I jump out of my own skin. It can’t
be. He was dying. It can’t be.

Jasper Hart is
the man from the woods.

Chapter 3

My
shoulder blades are itching, my sudden rush of
panic awakening my wings.
God no. Not here. I scoot to the edge of my seat, prepared to get up and race
out of the room. I squeeze my eyes shut as though that will stop them. Please
no.

When
I open my eyes again, Jasper Hart has taken his seat. I think I can see the
back of his head out of the corner of my eye, but I look steadily ahead at Dr.
Mars. My heart rate slows, I catch my breath and as my body relaxes the feeling
that my wings are about to spring from my back goes away. I spend the next half
hour trying not to think about Jasper Hart instead of listening to Dr. Mars
introduce the course. Since it’s the first class, he assigns some reading and
lets us out early. I’m the first one out of my seat, and I take the back exit.

My
next class isn’t until one, so I flee to the library where I can grab a bagel
and coffee at the café and rearrange my thoughts. Confusion over the identity
of Jasper Hart pushes my uncertainties about Max to the back of my mind.

It
had to be him, right? Now that I’m out of that room, I’m not sure. Maybe it was
just some other guy with shoulder-length dark hair, chiseled cheekbones and a
marble-white complexion. I didn’t get a good look at his eyes—the man in the
woods had intense, midnight blue eyes, so dark they were almost black. And of
course there’s the obvious absence of broad, black feathered wings.

Even
if it is truly him, why did I react the way I did? It’s not so outlandish that
he could be at the same school where I’m working on my bachelor’s degree, is
it? Thurston University is a relatively small, private school only about an
hour away from where I grew up—an hour from where we found him.

Then
again, how is it possible I dreamed of him before I ever met him? How did he
give me this freakish…
“
ability,” and why?
What is he? Because whatever he is, Jasper Hart, World Myths and Legends
teaching assistant, isn’t human—if he’s really the same person.

There
is one person you could ask.
The realization pops unexpectedly into my
mind. Anna. Although we haven’t talked in six years, we both ended up at
Thurston. She could confirm his identity, although there’s also a chance she’ll
pretend to have no idea what I’m talking about. For Anna and Jimmy, that night
was like a really bad dream. For me, it had been a very real nightmare.

Before
I can give myself more reasons to chicken out, I take another
confidence-boosting sip of coffee and bring up her name on my phone. Even
though she’s probably gone through several phones these past years, I’m pretty
sure she kept the same number. I hope she did.

Anna?
It’s Siobhan
, I text her.

I
put my phone back on the table and, after a few minutes of staring at it, I
cram another piece of bagel into my mouth. Suddenly, my phone vibrates, and I
eagerly tap the screen.

Yeah.
Hi.
That’s all it says, but at least she answered me.

Really
need to talk to u. Can u meet for coffee later?

When
she doesn’t answer for at least ten minutes, I add:
It’s about DA.
I
hope she remembers DA—Dark Angel, what we called him in the weeks following the
encounter. Jimmy suggested it—apparently he’s some comic book character. It’s
also the name of a short-lived science fiction series starring Jessica Alba. I
may not know my comic books, but I definitely know my sci-fi TV shows. I never
liked the nickname, even though it suited him. To me, angels represent
goodness, purity of heart and soul. They’re beings of light and wouldn’t give
off the waves of raw sensuality I’d felt emanating from him.
I think I saw
him. Think he’s alive.

My
phone buzzes a few seconds later.
OK. Does 7 work? Starbucks on Hickory?

See
u then,
I reply. I sigh—class from one to five, executive board meeting at
five thirty, coffee with Anna at seven. This is turning out to be a busier
first day than I thought. I finish my bagel and take my coffee with me to a
computer so I can print out the World Myths syllabus and reading and some
materials for my other Monday classes.

***

“Where’s
Liz?” Victoria wonders impatiently. My big sister sits cross-legged on her
black desk chair, hunched over her phone. Although she’s since exchanged her
workout clothes for a pair of jeans and a simple white t-shirt, the neon green
sweatband still slicks her hair out of her face, and errant auburn strands
struggle to break free. “She’s ten minutes late. Can someone call her?” There’s
a neat stack of board meeting agendas on her lap, which she passes to where her
roommate Carly is sprawled on her bed. The rest of the board members and I are
more-or-less sitting in a circle around the bedroom.

“Already
tried,” Carly says. She stretches to accept the handouts, her black t-shirt
bunching up around her waist, which wrinkles Billy Idol’s silk screen face.
Above her is a giant movie poster for The Breakfast Club. Carly wants it to be
the eighties even though she was born in nineteen ninety two. Behind the flood
of caramel-colored curls cascading down her shoulders and swaying in her face,
her baby blue eyes dart from Victoria to the spiral-bound notebook resting on
her knees as she jots something down. “She didn’t pick up. I’ll text her, too.”

“Thanks.”
Victoria’s forehead wrinkles as her amber eyes, large and shrewd like an owl’s,
contemplate Carly’s shiny pink notebook. “Is
that
for taking minutes?”

“No,
I’m making a grocery list.”

Victoria
rolls her eyes, and Carly sticks her tongue out at her.

“Well,
let’s get started without her so we can get out of here,” Victoria continues.
She goes around the room, asking us our plans for our position for the academic
year. I scribble a few notes while the other board members are talking to get
my thoughts straight. I haven’t taken any time this afternoon to think about
what I would give for my report.

“Little,
do you have a recruitment report?”

I
jump at the nickname, thinking Victoria is talking to me. Then I realize she also
said “recruitment,” but my roommate has already picked up on my confusion.

“She’s
talking to
me
, Twin!” Tanya explains, giving me a reassuring look. She’s
already changed out of her first-day-of-class outfit into a pair of pajama
shorts and a low-cut tank top. Tanya and I have been roommates since freshman
year. She had always wanted to join Gamma Lambda Phi while I hadn’t been sure I
wanted to join any sorority at all, but she dragged me to sign up for rush our
freshman year. Now not only are we still roommates, but we have the same big
sister, so in sorority lingo we’re “twins.” The endearment is especially
fitting for us. Like me, she’s a petite blonde, except she’s about one inch
taller than me, tanner than me, and several cup sizes larger than me. I don’t
really think about my boobs that much, but sometimes I get a fleeting pang of
jealousy that we’re practically the same size everywhere else except
that
area.

“Rush
is at the end of September and will be here before you know it,” Tanya reminds
us. “Don’t expect to get any sleep that weekend—or do anything else, for that
matter. You will eat, breathe and crap Gamma Lambda Phi. But at the end,” she
adds, holding up a slim, tan finger, “we will get to welcome lots of fledglings
into our bonds of sisterhood!”

I
join the others in a round of encouraging snaps. Above the scattered pops of
our fingers someone gives a gagging cough. Tanya wrinkles her nose in Carly’s
direction before continuing.

“I’m
having a meeting with my committee tomorrow at seven, but if anyone wants to
come and sit in I would certainly welcome the help.” Her voice rises anxiously
at the end.

“Fantastic,”
Victoria says, making a note of this in her planner. “Thanks, Tanya. Other
Little—social report?”

“We
have a very busy first couple of weeks of school. First is our mixer with the
Sigma Chis coming up this weekend.” My reminder is met with toothy smiles,
squeals of excitement and another flurry of snaps. “And the weekend after that
is our annual ‘Find Your Sister a Mister’ blind date dance at the Riverfront
Bar and Grill. We have their dining room booked from seven to eleven that
Friday. Carly is my co-chair for the event, and she’ll be helping me with
purchasing decorations and other logistical issues.” I look over at Carly, and
her caramel curls bob in agreement. “It would be nice if we had a committee to
help us, though,” I add to Victoria.

“That’s
fine. You can make the announcement at Chapter on Sunday. I expect
all
of you to attend the mixer Saturday night,” Victoria says, sweeping her
uncapped ballpoint pen around the room. “Okay, that’s it for today, ladies.”

I
look at my phone. It’s six thirty. If I start walking now, I’ll still be a few
minutes early for my next meeting with Anna.

“I’m
headed back out,” I tell Tanya. Her bronze face hovers in the doorway to our
room. “I’ll probably be back around nine.”

“Where
ya off to, Twin?” she wants to know. “Off to see
Maxwell
again?”

“Nope.
I’m meeting a friend from high school for coffee.”

“Cool!
Have fun!” she tells me before disappearing back into our room. I scamper the
rest of the way down the stairs and go out through the back door to avoid the
throng of sisters gathered around our television watching a rerun of the
Kardashians.

The
air outside is a little cooler than it was this afternoon, but it’s not late
enough in September to feel that crisp autumn chill I crave. Campus is still
bustling with people going to evening classes or to dinner. Our pale brick
academic buildings and residence halls cluster a few miles outside of downtown
Shadesburg. Shadesburg is a mid-sized city that’s really more like a decoupage
of neighborhoods crisscrossed by old railroad tracks and rivers. Thirty years
ago steel mills and coal-fired power plants belched toxins into the air and
shrouded Shadesburg in a black veil of soot. The mills eventually closed, but
expansion of the medical industry, banking, academia and sports revived the
local economy. The air is cleaner now, too—or at least it
looks
cleaner.
Our pocket of Shadesburg has a laid back, suburban atmosphere, but unlike
Laurel, there’s a lot to do and explore beyond the campus limits. It’s the best
of two worlds.

As
I approach Starbucks, I see a slender, tan figure already sitting at one of the
round umbrella tables outside. She’s looking down at her phone, which makes her
long, dark brown hair fall in front of her face, but I know it has to be Anna.

“Anna?
Is that you?” I’m relieved that my innately cheerful voice doesn’t betray my
apprehension. Anna looks up. She’s wearing black leggings that stop just below
the knee and a long turquoise-and-white plaid shirt cinched at her waist with a
belt. I’m standing there smiling like I’m on crack, but she maintains a frown,
her hazel eyes assessing me coolly.

“I’m
missing rehearsal because of this,” she tells me, her tone dripping with
animosity. “This’d better be good.”

“It
is! I promise,” I reply quickly. “But first, coffee,” I add, starting for the
door.

“Right,” Anna
says and gets up to follow me. I’ve forgotten, at about five foot nine, how much
taller she is than me. She looks slim in her leggings, and her skin has a
slight bronze glow without looking artificially tan.

Inside, I order
a tall coffee—decaffeinated, because otherwise I’ll be wired all night. Anna
orders a chai tea latte with skim milk. I take a moment to dump half and half
and sugar into mine. We go back outside to sit down.

“So…how are
you?” I ask as she’s taking a sip of her tea. More like: How have you been for
the past six years? We barely even see each other let alone speak. As a music
education major, she’s usually holed up in the fine arts building, while I’m
trapped in one of the undergraduate biology labs plating
E. coli
. She
has voice lessons and auditions; I have my sorority. Sometimes I forget we’re
even at the same school. And after what I did to Jimmy, I’m relieved she’s
willing to speak to me even six years later.

Anna shrugs.
“Things are good. I’m getting through the program pretty quickly. I might be
able to graduate a semester early, or fit in a master’s degree.” Another
tentative sip. “What about you?”

“Pretty good. I
like the Biology department, most days.” I laugh when I add this part at the
end, but her face remains serious, so I stop. “I’m social chair for Gamma Lambda
Phi now, so I get to plan our mixers and dances and stuff. It’s fun.”

She nods. “Cool.
So, about DA?”

So much for
catching up. I sigh and fold my hands on the table since I’ve been fiddling
with the tassel of my purse in my lap. “I think he’s my World Myths and Legends
teaching assistant.”

Anna
looks like she’s about to spit out a mouthful of tea. “What?” she manages to
choke out after swallowing.

I tell her about
the first World Myths class this morning and describe Jasper Hart to her, every
detail I can recall before I shut my eyes to try to calm myself down. Of
course, I leave out the part about my wings wanting to burst out of my back in
response to that intense sweep of panic.