Shuffle [YA Paranormal Romance] Read online

  SHUFFLE

  Avery Bell

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  Shuffle

  Copyright 2012 Avery Bell

  Cover Image: elenaray / 123RF Stock Photo

  Kindle Edition

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  License Notes, Kindle Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for the recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Kindle Store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Interlude

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Prelude

  The poet knelt by the body. Blood pooled around them on the white marble floor, spreading darkness and the horror of death. Emerald eyes still open in a lifelike expression of surprise. Hand still warm, clutching the poet's ankle in a last futile attempt to escape fate.

  He would come now. This was the moment.

  Rain lashed the windows of the library. The storm had rolled in unexpectedly over the plains, like a ghostly ship with huge, black sails. The poet breathed deeply as a burst of lightning illuminated the body once, twice – a volley of jagged strobes. Thunder rattled the chandeliers. It was a night for fury. A night for passion.

  “I know you're here.”

  The poet waited. Minutes ticked away. Somewhere on Main Street, a church bell tolled the hour. Midnight. Twelve plaintive tones, ripped apart by the wind.

  And still he did not come.

  The poet felt the body. Cold now. Well, it was a cold night. The library was beginning to stink from the urine and fecal matter that had been expelled upon death. The eyes looked less lifelike. The hand was stiff. The body was no longer a person; it had become a thing.

  Fear clutched the poet's heart. God, where was he? He had to come; had to be here now. Had to.

  “Come out, come out wherever you are!” Maybe he was playing a joke. That was it, surely.

  Nothing.

  Cold chilled the poet to the bone, and the wet and the tang of drying blood. Everything was lost in nightmares of bottomless chasms and wild, whirling cacophonies. The bell tolled one. Time rushed away, quicksand into the deep. The poet was slipping. Fear became a blanket, suffocating.

  “Where are you?”

  The storm did not abate. Wind howled like the memory of the trains that had once passed through this hall, echoes of men and women who had heeded the call to come West, disembarking with their steamer trunks and newspapers. People who were long since dust.

  The body was staring. The poet felt its dead glare like a hammer strike. Frenzied glances around the deserted bookshelves, into the gilded alcoves and the cobwebbed brass of the grand chandeliers.

  He wasn't coming.

  The poet howled and kicked the body in a rage. Terror crept in from behind; the poet thrashed against it, but the straightjacket had been set.

  “I did this for you!”

  The poet ran to the first bookshelf, spilling the pages onto the floor to flutter vulnerably, then to be ripped apart by wrathful hands.

  “See this thing I did for you!”

  He was unworthy, that was all. Unworthy of the work. The poet mowed down the books, rack by rack and shelf by shelf, like a thresher of words. Screams did not pierce the storm. Just as the gunshot had not. No one was out on such a night to see lights burning in the library, to see a storm of stories almost equal in intensity to the storm of water and wind and electricity.

  Not quite no one.

  The poet felt a presence as the bell chimed two and the library lay in tattered ruin. A boy stood in the center of the chaos, regarding the body with a somber frown. He was tall and lean, skin as pale and perfect as porcelain. His eyes were the bottomless chasms of which the poet had dreamed.

  “Too late,” he whispered.

  The poet stared in disbelief.

  “I'm sorry. I have to go.” He departed quickly, sneakers squeaking on the marble. The door opened, letting in a squall of rain that spattered some of the vagabond words.

  Ink ran like blood.

  *

  Dawn dispersed the storm, and the land sighed in verdant relief. Irises bloomed in window boxes; white lilies opened their faces to the light of the morning sun. One of the assistant librarians stopped on her way to work to get coffee and a cinnamon roll, and spent a few minutes chatting with the shopkeeper. She checked her watch – oops, running late. A bell jingled merrily as she left the coffee shop and crossed the street to the library.

  Fumbling her keys, trying not to spill what was left of her coffee, she managed to open the door. She blinked in the gloom. Something was wrong. A smell. The floor was sticky.

  Screaming on Main Street.

  When the police arrived, they found a pistol with one empty chamber and a suicide note. The assistant librarian sobbed in a corner, unable to look at the swarm of cops over the gory scene. Turning her head away and dabbing her wet eyes with a tissue, she realized that something would have to be done about the books.

  Chapter 1

  “Could you let me out here?”

  Callie didn't answer. Her lower lip was caught in her teeth, and she was squinting the way she always does when she's thinking too hard. I popped my knuckles as loud as I could.

  “What, Evi?”

  But it was too late – we were already pulling up to school. God, it's embarrassing being dropped off in a squad car. I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I slid out, charms on my backpack jangling. Rumors have a way of springing up instantly at Peaks High (or “High Peaks,” if you want to be that lame. Yes, it's Colorado. We have mountains here. Get over it.) and the fact that my sister is a cop now was probably already making the rounds, along with lurid and mostly untrue stories about drug busts and murders. Oh well. It'd give them something new to talk about after what happened last spring.

  “Have a good first day,” she called.

  I stuck my tongue out at her. She made the lights flash and her siren boo-wop once as she pulled out of the student drop-off area. Jerk.

  I made a mental note to ask Ellen for a ride tomorrow, if she'd finally gotten her driver's license over the summer. I realized with a small pang of guilt that I hadn't seen her since I was pulled out of school back in March. Ellen's been my best friend since we were poopy little two-year-olds in day care, and this six month hiatus is probably the longest we've been apart since we met. But she knows it's not my fault.

  The walk up the hill to campus seemed longer than usual, with all the people staring at me and then turning away to whisper to their friends. Why our high school was built on a rise, I don't know. I suppose the view of it standing alone, framed by the Rockies, is pretty impressive. Peaks High looks kind of like a medieval castle, weathered brown brick with narrow windows and crenelation across the top. It's crowded;
the classrooms are small and the halls could use some air. But it was built during the New Deal and nobody seems to want to tear it down. The only new sections are the fieldhouse and the cafeteria, which balloon out the back like large, square tumors.

  “Hey, Evi-head!” I didn't see her coming before I was enveloped. Ellen's tiny, with brown eyes and beautiful dark skin, and she knows a thing or two about hugging.

  “Good to see you, too. Now get off me.”

  She laughed and let me go. “Thank God you're here,” she whispered conspiratorially as we walked up to the school's big front doors and pushed our way inside through the throng. “I was getting bored of those jokers.” She pointed out a group of our friends standing around the junior lockers. Britta, Shelby and Vi. Three of a kind. We used to be a tight fivesome back in middle school, but all of a sudden last year they started going places without us, trying to hang out with the popular crowd. I really don't know what's up with them.

  We stopped briefly, just to say hi. Britta was all bright, fake smiles and an effusive “Missed you! Welcome home!” Shelby and Vi were more reserved. We talked for a few minutes, mostly about some new guy. Every year there's at least one new kid at Peaks, and every year, like gossipy clockwork, insane rumors materialize out of the ether to follow him around. Apparently this year he was hot.

  “So gorgeous,” sighed Britta, hands clutched to her large chest. She's pretty stacked, and she calls her boobs her “blessings,” which I think is gross. “His hair is like, jet black. Like almost too black, do you know what I mean?”

  “What's his name?” I asked. “I haven't seen him yet.”

  “Arbor Vitae Damo da Rosa.”

  I snorted. “Seriously? Where's he from?”

  “Michigan,” Vi piped up.

  Shelby scoffed. “You're thinking of Ann Arbor, Michigan.”

  Vi scowled at her. “No I'm not. That's what I heard.”

  “I heard he's from the south. Louisiana. Or Brazil.”

  “Well, I heard he's from England,” said Britta. “And I think I'm right.” Her face was pink with excitement. With all her eye makeup and foundation on (yikes, that was new), she looked like an overripe peach. She clearly had some exclusive information that she'd been bursting to share. We leaned in.

  “I ran into him in the park yesterday when I was walking Tootles.” (Yes, Britta's dog is named Tootles. Do you even need to know anything else about her? She's hilarious, though. Anyway.) “And I saw him just hanging out, watching some guys play basketball. He is tall, by the way, ladies. He introduced himself to me and then pointed over at them and was like, 'I'm going to have to get acquainted with American sports. You don't play cricket here, do you?' His accent. Was. Amazing.”

  “So sexy,” breathed Vi.

  Ellen pulled me away from them. We had to get going if we were going to drop off our books and make it to class on time. We giggled to each other about how ridiculous Britta was being, and then there was a pause.

  “Where were you all summer?” Ellen asked. “I mean... Well, I heard...” Her brow furrowed. She was afraid of hurting my feelings. “Everyone thought I knew something about it, but I didn't, so they were constantly asking me and I heard like a million different things.”

  “Like that I was in a loony bin?”

  “Shut up!” She hit me playfully on the arm. Then she stopped, face frozen with concern. “Wait, were you?”

  “No.” I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “I was at my uncle's in Montana. With family. You know, the healing process?”

  Ellen nodded gravely. Suddenly she wasn't sure how to act around me. I was afraid of this. Afraid of people treating me like some delicate piece of china. “How are you?” she asked. “Is that a weird question?”

  “My mom shot herself,” I said. “My dad's been gone since I was three. My sister is the only real family I've got left. I've spent the entire summer dealing with it, and now I just want to get back to normal.”

  “You've got me. I'm family.” Ellen gave me another quick hug. But there was a new kind of silence between the two of us as we dug out our class schedules, found our lockers and grumbled over the stupid old combination locks that the school can't be bothered to replace. At least we're right next to each other, as always. Evangeline Wild and Ellen Wilson. The two “ews,” we used to call ourselves when we were little.

  “I got you a welcome back present,” said Ellen. She stepped up to my open locker and pressed something inside. It was a mirror, framed in my favorite shade of blue, with moons and shooting stars around the outside. She still likes to tease me about my childhood dream of being an astronaut and going into space.

  “Awesome,” I said. “Now I can stare at my ugliness between trips to the bathroom.”

  “Hey, if you're not gonna appreciate it properly...” She reached over and tried to peel off the adhesive. I smacked her arm away. (Yeah, we kind of beat each other up. It's basically how we do friendship, teasing and physical abuse.)

  “Thanks,” I said, laughing. Maybe things would get back to normal eventually. “Really. And I'm sorry I abandoned you this summer.”

  “Hey, you had to do you,” she said, shrugging. “I get it.”

  I knew she did. Ellen has seven younger brothers and sisters, most of them foster kids that her parents take in, and she rarely gets enough time to herself. Just about the opposite of my situation.

  The warning bell rang, announcing three minutes until the official start of the school year. First up for Ellen was AP Chem – she's going to be a research scientist one day. I had Latin 101. Languages have always kind of been my thing, and I'd already zoomed through the French sequence, including AP French last year as a sophomore. So I thought I'd sign up for Latin. Try a dead language this time.

  Ellen ran off, and I took one last second to do a sanity check in the mirror. My face stared back at me, same as always. Creamy skin, sunburst of freckles across the nose and cheeks. Big green eyes. That stuff I like okay. But the rest of me, carroty hair that can't seem to do anything but fly outward in bunches, too-curvy body... that I want to change. Ellen always laughs about how we're total opposites. She's African-American; I'm as Irish-looking as they come. It's easy for her to talk, since she's the beautiful one. Recently people have started telling me that I look like that singer, Adele. I think they're nuts.

  I took another glance down at my outfit, which was a little loud and crazy. I try to cover my body with interesting clothes so that maybe people won't notice the shape; today I had on Chucks and bright pink tights under a purple plaid skirt and graphic tee. A little punk rock to start the school year. I don't usually wear makeup, but I'd dashed on a bit of Callie's mascara earlier, to, as she put it, “mark the occasion.” I was afraid of it splotching or running – I'm not used to makeup. Another quick peek in the mirror and luckily, it seemed to be under control. “Behave,” I whispered to my lashes as I slammed my locker. “You too,” I told my hair. I am such a dork.

  The halls were emptying as students rushed into their classrooms. I checked my schedule again. “Damn,” I mumbled. The Latin room was up a level on the exact opposite side of the building. Idiot. I was going to be tardy for my first class if I didn't hurry up. I rushed through the hallways and pounded up the staircase, annoyed at myself for the oversight.

  The final bell rang, and I was five steps too slow. Also I was sweating. Awesome. At least the teacher didn't look up as I slid behind a desk, frantically pulling a notebook and empty folder out of my shoulder bag.

  I glanced around the classroom; students were chatting with each other, swapping summer stories as the teacher fiddled with his projection system. I waved to a few acquaintances, but there wasn't anyone in the class I knew very well. I'd never seen the teacher before either; he must have been a new hire. I overheard someone behind me whisper that he was a professor from the University of Colorado, slumming it at Peaks. He was pleasant looking, wearing a hilarious combination of faded corduroy pants, purple turtleneck, a
nd aggressively patterned sweater vest. His remaining hair wisped away from his head as though it were searching for something, and his big nose was red and a little bulbous. He was clutching a tattered copy of Virgil's Aeneid to his chest.

  As the room quieted down, he clapped his hands together and said, “Salve! Welcome to Latin. My name is Quentin Pryce. Everybody calls me Quentin, not Dr. Pryce. Rule number one: if you don't call me Quentin, I can't help you.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Teachers at this school usually aren't so chummy with their students. I wondered how that would go – I could already guess that some of the rowdier members of class (the jocks, let's be honest) might try to make Quentin's life difficult and challenge his authority, given the opportunity.

  “Now, people usually come into a Latin class and wonder, 'Can I do this? Isn't Latin only for geniuses?' Of course not! Normal students can absolutely learn Latin, provided they are willing to put in the work that they would put into any other language course. In fact, Latin is easy.”

  I smirked. Easy for him to say; he'd clearly been studying it for at least a century or two. Quentin was about to go on with his lecture when the door swung open and another student came in. He handed Quentin a hall pass and they had a short, quiet conversation.

  “Another newcomer, like me,” Quentin announced jovially. “And one with a Latin name, no less! Arbor. Can anyone tell me what that means? As I was just about to say, you all know some Latin already.”

  Woah.

  Tall, lean, and pale, with a shock of raven hair and eyes so dark they made my head swim. Credit to Britta. Gorgeous didn't even begin to cover it.

  Someone must have raised their hand and answered “tree,” but I didn't hear it. Because those eyes were locked on mine and they were not letting go.

  “And your middle name is Vitae, isn't that right? The Tree of Life. Yggdrasil, I believe the Norse called it. An enormous tree that supports the heavens, grounds the earth, and with its roots reaches into the underworld, linking all three. Lovely.”

  Arbor nodded. He seemed bored. I glanced away, but I could still feel his eyes on me. Or at least, I thought I could. Somehow his stare seemed to penetrate my body, as though he were actually focusing on something else, far away. My heart beat like it was trying to free itself from my chest, and my mouth went dry.