The Seventh Sister, A Paranormal Romance (3 page)

“I’m working right?”

“Yes, the punch containers.”

I take steps to easily catch up to her. “The what?”

She stops, so I stop too.

“The punch, Miss Decker.”

“That’s my punishment, serve punch to kids?”

“Do you mean your peers?”

“Okay,” I say haughtily, “peers.”

“Chop, chop, the
kids
are getting thirsty,” she says before walking off.

I look over at a table with cupcakes, cookies, all sorts of candies for sale, and then there’s the punch dispenser with Derek Firth standing right next to it and grinning at me.

“Great,” I say to myself and reluctantly walk off to take my post.

I thought I’d be moving tables and chairs, setting up speaker systems or something, not serving refreshments.

“See, I’m your date for tonight after all,” Derek whispers in my ear after coming close.

I take a step to the side, away from him. “What are you doing here?” I’m a bit snippety.

“Volunteering.” He’s still grinning.

I snort. “You should stop, really.”

While I’m searching the floor, there’s Riley grouped with about four other girls, beaming in on us.

“You want me to stop volunteering?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

A spikey haired kid steps up to the punch containers.

“Need a cup,” he says directly to me.

I pick up a waxy cardboard cup, put it under the spout, pull the knob and fill it up. “Here you go,” I say, but when I look past him, I see a whole line of people eagerly waiting their turn has formed.

“He’s serving too,” I shout to the guy who’s just stepped in front of me. I shove a cup towards Derek and whip a finger in his direction, telling the kid go there.

“So you do you want me to volunteer?” Derek asks through a snarky grin.

“I guess,” I breathe, keeping my eyes on the task at hand as I serve the next person.

“Two lines,” he shouts, but he’s not even close to sounding as odious as I just did, and the students reluctantly split. “See, I’m not the only one who finds you interesting,” Derek whispers with his mouth too close to my ear.

I glance up at the line of partygoers who are all looking at me. “That’s because you’re all hicks,” I mutter.

“Ha, so that’s what you think of the local color?”

I pour and hand out the next drink while taking a long moment to think about what Derek just asked me. Sure he’s being funny, but the answer in my head is full of rage. Not towards him, he’s just a conduit for what really irks me.

From sixth to ninth grade, I attended an all-girl’s private school in Manhattan, where being a loner was much easier because there were no boys around.

I used to hate the way I looked in that blue coat and little gray skirt with knee-high socks. Almost every single guy that I passed would stare at me. It was embarrassing. I knew what I looked like, some video chick who’s only seconds away from tearing out of the naughty school girl uniform. Even in a longer skirt and baggier coat, they stared. However, the girls at school paid me no attention at all, at least for the most part. There were a handful of jealous girls and we had our run-ins.

But the social structure in this public school has just been so jolting that I’ve turned so bitter towards the entire institution and town at that. I want out. I want far away from here. Yet I don’t want to hate anyone or anything in the meantime—unfortunately, I do.

“No, they’re not all hicks, I guess,” I say through a repentant sigh and take a glance at him. In my mind, I just did a complete one-eighty and I wonder if he finds that unstable of me.

“I didn’t think you really believed that anyway,” is what he says.

Now we’re staring at each other. I want to hold on to how he said that, the tone of his voice. He could not have heard me thinking of being ashamed of my attitude towards everyone here. But—if I were a more intuitive person, I would conclude that he did.

“Excuse me,” a girl says. We turn away from each other and there’s Riley standing in front of me as opposed to him. “Punch, punch girl.”

I fill up a cup and shove it at her. “Here you go.”

She doesn’t take it. “Did you guys come together?” Her eyes are dancing between me and Derek.

“No we didn’t,” Derek says before I could.

“Oh,” Riley says, “because if you did then…” We’re both watching her, waiting for the rest. “Well, just…then.”

Without taking my cup, she cuts in front of the person standing before Derek and leans towards him. “Um, can we talk?” she tries to whisper.

That’s when I purposely stop paying attention as Derek steps off to oblige Riley’s request, leaving me there all alone.

There’s a seriously mundane pop music tune playing with a female singer whining in the background. I stare across the room to get the gist of what’s going on in here. Couples dance together shifting back and forth. Some girls dance with girls to keep from being bored. The boys that showed up without being asked are holding up the walls. Most are standing in groups, holding their cups of punch, talking. It looks like no one is having that much fun.

After a short while, there’s no one standing in front of me waiting for a cup of punch. The dim lights and general boredom in the air makes me yawn. That’s when I hear those little heels go click-click. I turn and there’s Mrs. Lowenstein, wearing that tight-lipped grin.

“You should go to the kitchen and make another batch.”

I blink taken aback. “Me, make punch?” I ask.

“It’s just water and sugary syrup,” says
Mrs. Sarcastic
.

“So where am I supposed to go? To the cafeteria?”

“The front doors are open, and the light is on in the kitchen. You’ll find the mix on the counter.” She scans the auditorium while saying, “You may want to ask Mr. Firth to assist you. Where is he anyway?”

Probably behind the building playing tongue hockey, or even yuckier, suck face, with his deranged girlfriend who’s not his girlfriend. I think this, but don’t say it. Plus I’m pretty sure she wasn’t looking for an answer anyway because her heels tap away from me when she sees two guys pulling the “SADIE” paper banner off the wall.

I snatch the plastic container up off the table and stomp my way across the floor and out into the icy night. Snow flurries are falling now. It’s still and quiet out here, so the peace of being away from pop music and teenagers soothes me.

I carry the container up the cement walk that leads to the cafeteria. Nothing is moving through the flat block buildings that line both sides of the path. I shuffle up the steps to the next level where my destination sits to the right.

Strange, but I halfway expect to find Derek and Riley making out somewhere between the buildings. It’s a grave feeling, which is unexpected and unwanted. This guy couldn’t be getting to me. There’s nothing about this town that appeals to me, not even the boys—no matter how good looking one may be. I’m forced to admit, Derek Firth is very attractive and even tonight, he’s luring me into him by piquing my interest.

The cafeteria is just as Mrs. Lowenstein said it would be, the lights are on and the doors are unlocked. The sound from the thick heels of my black leather hiking boots smashing against the linoleum takes the place of the normal chatter that goes on in here. This scene is what teen horror flicks are made of. I almost expect Jason or Freddy Krueger to sneak up behind me with an axe. I glance over my shoulder just to make sure that’s not about to happen.

I walk through the metal swinging double doors and into the kitchen where I see the red syrup sitting on the counter in a plastic container just as Mrs. Lowenstein said.

I go right to work, twisting the cap off the punch dispenser, pouring a portion of the red liquid into it and then walking it over to the industrial sized sink to fill it with water.

As the water runs, I think about Deanna’s warning. The fog is long gone, so I’m sure she’s calmed down and has already canceled her flight back home. Although I hope she didn’t. It’s time for her to do some time in Moonridge. She hasn’t stayed a full two weeks in three years, and I truly believe after one month without her posh, cosmopolitan perks, she’ll come to her senses and we’ll be packed and back in Manhattan in less than two days.

I’m simpering over the joys of that possibility when out of nowhere there’s a loud
bam
and I jump, startled. My eyes search the kitchen, trying to figure out where that sound came from. Now there’s a constant scratching on a wall, I think. I turn the faucet off to hear it better.

I’m standing still, listening. It is scratching interrupted by intermittent faint knocking.

Down past the stainless steel industrial-sized refrigerators there’s a door and that’s where the scratching is coming from.

I tiptoe over towards it. My heart is knocking against my chest. There’s another loud bang and I jump. Then there’s nothing, no sound at all.

I know what I’m capable of. Most girls should run away as fast they can to go get help, but I am the
help
. My ears remain on high alert as I move slowly towards the door, carefully twist the bolt on the locks and turn the doorknob.

I’m instantly hit by freezing cold air while standing in the doorway. I look up and down the narrow walk. There’s nothing there. Then I look downwards. There’s a red substance on the ground that’s now starting to freeze. I squat down and run a finger through the slushy fluid.
Is it blood?
Just as I examine my find, I feel a presence hovering. That’s when I look up to see three big guys glaring down at me.

I’m stunned, frozen in place. Though I’m scared out of my mind, my instincts tell me to fake bravery.

“Hey,” I say as I rise cautiously to my feet.

Upon study, I can tell that these guys are definitely not from around here. They’re wearing crisp, high-end jeans, the sort the trendy boys in Manhattan wear when they go clubbing and their hair cuts are sleek. What I notice the most is that they’re not wearing coats, and they don’t look the least bit cold.

“Look at her,” one says to the other.

“Do you smell that?” the other one asks.

They all sniff the air like animals and then look at me with gleaming eyes. I study the contours of their faces. All of them have an anemic, olive-skin complexion and shallow beards. They’re good looking for sure, but there’s something menacing about them.

“She’s one of those…” the first guy who spoke says.

I’m waiting to hear what I am, but they’re all just staring at me like I’m dinner or something. This is not going to end pretty.

Then I hear another bang, but my instincts are on high alert so I don’t take my eyes off these three. Just as I thought, the first one rushes me, but what’s in me takes over. I shift to the right to clamp both of my hands around his torso, pick him up and throw him like a bowling ball into the two other guys.

They all hit the snow, but I plant my feet, standing my ground. My fists are balled. Although I can’t believe this is happening, I’m in the thick of it now, and the only way out is to fight my way out.

As the men find their footing, I glance down by the dumpster, and see the legs of someone lying against the snow on the ground in a dark crevice between it and the wall of the building.

I turn back to face my opponents.

This time all three of them charge me, and I go on automatic kick butt. There’s no training behind my movements. My limbs respond instinctively to the aggression and I’m strong. These guys are matching me blow by blow—and that’s really strange. I hit them and they come back as if I’m having no affect at all.

I don’t want to hurt them too badly, but I know this a different kind of fight. They’re not schoolyard bullies. When one of them throws a kick towards my head, I know the intent behind that blow. If it had connected, I’d be hurt bad—
not dead, it would take more than that to kill me
. My right hand catches his foot and I throw him at least fifty feet out. Soon after, my left elbow cracks another one in the neck hard enough to send him to the ground clutching his throat and gasping until he’s out cold.
One down, two to go
. I have no time to assess what my next move should be. These guys are not giving up.

Just when I’m ready to maim the other two as well, a white flash shoots through the air and right before my eyes, the two would-be aggressors are face down in the snow, but their bodies are twisted and mangled. Derek Firth is standing right beside me, glaring down at his kill.

“What, how…” I can barely squeeze out of my voice box.

Derek squats down beside one of them, flips him over and pulls open his mouth. He puts his finger on the guy’s teeth. “Selells,” he says, then frowns perplexed as he rises back up to stand, “but there’s something different about these creatures.”

I’m blinking like crazy, wondering if what just happened really just happened.

“What did you call these guys again?”

“These are Selells.” Derek seems distracted as he stares over by the dumpster. “There’s another one.”

He goes over, takes hold of this guy’s leg and pulls him out of his hiding place and into full view. I gasp shocked at first sight, there’s a seriously deep gash in his neck and blood is just pouring out of it.

“Is he alive?” I ask, curiously craning my neck forward, hoping to see something that will look more logical.

“Not really,” Derek mutters, keeping his eyes on the injured party.

“He’s dead?” Then I look at the other three bodies lying around us like road kill. “Are they all dead?”

“Those three are gone. This one isn’t—yet.”

“What do you mean, yet? Are you going to kill him?” Because it sounds like that’s what he meant.

I go stand over the guy, keeping my eyes on Derek’s hands, making sure he doesn’t slaughter this poor guy who’s already close to being dead in the first place.

“I have to,” Derek insists.

“No, you don’t,” I argue. “And what are you talking about in the first place? Listen to yourself. Are you a murderer?”

He looks up at me. Why does he look so calm when I’m freaking out here? Then the guy on the ground groans.