Chapter TWO
Moments earlier...
The silence was broken by a “Holy shit!” and it took Skye a moment to realize she hadn’t imagined it.
From inside the deep circle of flattened cornstalks the only thing visible, besides the star-dotted sky, was the row of trees marking the end of Kenneth’s property. Nestled in the branches of the second tree was the old clubhouse. Dangling beneath the clubhouse, and to either side of the giant trunk, were the spot-lit faces of two wide-eyed teenagers.
No!
Chaos erupted around her. The Final Host moved as one toward the trees. Some broke into a run. She had to go along. What excuse could she offer if she didn’t?
A twisted ankle?
Her ankles didn’t twist.
Too tired?
Her kind didn’t need rest.
Too distraught over losing Marcus?
She wasn’t supposed to be. Losing people was the one constant of their existence. In fact, they’d be losing her in a matter of weeks.
Her turn to stand in the center of the circle had never bothered her before, but this assignment was different. She thought she’d become attached to the old neighbor because he was unusually loveable, in that rough Scottish way. Really, how could anyone resist such honesty, such charm?
But then, two days ago a lot of things changed. Two days ago she’d felt a tug in her empty chest and looked up to see Kenneth Jamison’s handsome grandson looking back at her. Two days ago she’d slipped easily into the character of the sixteen-year-old girl she was supposed to resemble. Of course she didn’t feel mortal; she’d never feel that. But she’d felt something. And in a body with no sensation, feeling something was monumental.
What she felt for the old man had been but a warning. She should have reported it right away. She saw that now.
Step by step she dragged her feet through the cornfield, but instead of leaping over the fence with the others, she stalled. She couldn’t bear it. Young Jamison would have noticed her in the circle. What a freak he must believe her to be.
If he’d seen.
There was a chance he hadn’t recognized her in the darkness, from that distance, and that slim chance kept her from joining in the chase. If she came face to face with him now, he’d fear her, and she dreaded seeing that emotion mar his strong face. Even worse would be finding disgust in his lovely blue eyes.
While they’d noticed each other over the fence for the past two days, she’d gotten a good look at him. They’d exchanged smiles, a nod of the head. A little wave once. His brows were much darker than his golden blond hair with their ends bowed up like the edge of a wing. His flat cheeks rippled into dimples when he’d laughed with his mother, and his straight white teeth only made his Texas tan stand out that much more.
So foolish! What she should worry about was losing his cooperation, not his approval. Making an enemy of Jamison Shaw would jeopardize her assignment, and all she could think about was his dimples?
Ridiculous! She was impervious to everything. She felt nothing. The emotions of mortals were things she watched from a distance, manipulated when necessary. They did not manipulate her.
Why, then, did she suddenly feel opposing waves inside her body, crashing into each other? What would the others say? Was she flawed? Would they call for a replacement and send her to the center of the circle early?
Fear. This is fear.
She sagged against the fence and nearly laughed in relief. Those of the Final Host had nothing to fear; that was the entire point of The Arrangement.
Her thoughts calmed. Everything would happen as it was destined to happen. Jamison, and the strange connection she felt with him, had a purpose. She needed only to wait and see what that was.
She heard Ray Peters pleading for God’s help and found a gap through which she could watch the proceedings. He was on the ground, held firmly by three of her robed “cousins.” Shock had him shaking like a junkie in withdrawals and she pitied him, even though he half-deserved a good fright. She’d warned him to mind his own business, first kindly, then sternly. She wondered if at that moment her warning was replaying in his head—”Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed...the cat.”
She took a deep, bracing-but-unnecessary breath and looked back to where the other captive sat.
It wasn’t Jamison!
A very black-haired Burke Costley struggled and spit, but his captors only laughed and interrupted when he began cursing. If he meant to punch empty air he was succeeding nicely. He probably saw six robed men, not three, and he was fighting the wrong three.
Clearly he was far too wasted for adrenaline to sober him up. The fight drained quickly, turning his arms to sagging rubber and he slumped to the ground in a loose pile next to his well-recognized beanie. Burke was soon carried away like a baby, and Skye had little doubt that if left to himself, he probably wouldn’t remember anything in the morning.
As Ray was led away his army fatigues churned beneath him, but there was no need. He barely touched the ground, thanks to his escort.
The yard was quickly emptying of white robes, except for the circle of men surrounding the base of the tree, as if they might shake the mighty trunk until Jamison dropped from the branches like a ripe peach. Thank goodness that wasn’t an option; from that height, they’d end up with peach jam.
Skye had assumed, when she’d first seen Kenneth’s grandson, that he noticed her only because of her apparent age. After all, she’d been given plain, non-memorable looks. But as she’d moved throughout the compound, and he’d gone in and out of his grandfather’s house, the connection between them had become real.
It was this connection that made her sharply aware of his presence over nearly thirty feet above her. Too bad she hadn’t been so aware of him before the ceremony began. If she hadn’t been so distracted over losing dear Marcus, perhaps she would have felt that tug and warned the rest. An interruption would have been welcomed; it would have supplied an excuse to keep Marcus for an additional day.
Lucas and Jonathan began climbing the tree. If the situation weren’t so serious, their struggle to find the elusive footholds in billowing skirts would have been funny. The two were aware of Skye’s assignment and that Jamison could not be handled as Ray and Burke would be. But what would they do? Jamison must not resist. If he struggled and fell...
She turned her back; she couldn’t watch. Lucas and Jonathan would keep him safe. Besides, she and the boy would both be embarrassed if Jamison fought like Burke then found her watching it all for entertainment.
Conversation was apparently unaffected by gravity since she couldn’t catch a word that was said. She strained to discern a voice other than Lucas and Jonathan’s, but got nothing.
Leaning back, she slid down the fencepost until the ground hit her rump and she folded her bell sleeves over her knees. Nothing to do but wait and count stars.
Two robed figures vaulted over the fence to land beside her.
“Too weak to clear the fence, Skye?” Lucas chucked her under the chin and pulled her to her feet so abruptly she nearly took flight.
Jonathan looked at her closely. “More likely she didn’t wish the young man to know of her participation. It might have played against her, and she is working under a time constraint.”
She gave Jonathan a generous smile. He was a great reader—minds, faces, auras—he read them all. Clearly. Subjectively.
“Well, then, you have little to worry over, my dear.” Lucas began walking along the fence, toward the house. “He wasn’t up there.”
Skye had begun to follow, but stopped. “What do you mean, he wasn’t up there?” she whispered a bit loudly.
“He. Wasn’t. Up. There.” Jonathan walked around her to follow Lucas. “No heat traces of him on the ground, either, so relax.”
Of course she couldn’t relax! She happened to know Jamison had been up there. He was still up there. The question was what should she do about it?
Perhaps he was asleep, under a blanket they hadn’t checked. Perhaps he’d missed it all. But that wasn’t likely. Lucas and Jonathan were anything but subtle. They wouldn’t have tiptoed up the tree, taken a peek and come back down. They would have stomped through from corner to corner and bellowed out the windows.
Jamison wasn’t asleep. He’d seen it all, and now he was hiding. She couldn’t blame him. She’d hide if she were him, if she’d seen what he’d seen then heard his friends being taken away.
She had a choice, which was odd since she never had choices to make, only clear-cut objectives. There was no owner’s manual to tell her to report any strange connections she felt with her mortal counterparts. She had no clear obligation to correct Lucas when he claimed Jamison wasn’t up there. After all, her senses could be wrong. She wasn’t supposed to have such a sense anyway. Who was to say she wasn’t imagining something up there? It was over the property line, unhallowed ground. It could be a demon.
It could be, but it wasn’t. It was only Jamison.
Only Jamison. If only it were that simple.