Part 8 (1/2)
Heavy steps shuffled toward the big window.
”Uh, oh. Not good.”
”Not good is right.”
”Well, we've cleaned up messes before.” The small search party moved around the room, tossing around magazines, snooping through the long wood boxes that served as storage and seating for generations of little boys' b.u.t.ts.
”Are you going to come out, Jamison?” The words pushed through the wood.
h.e.l.l no.
He wasn't even going to breathe unless they climbed out, squeezed through those twisted tree limbs, and crawled onto the roof. They had no proof he was there. No proof.
He held his lungs open so air could come and go as it pleased, but he wouldn't rustle a friggin' leaf!
”Do you think he's here?” one whispered.
Jamison smiled in relief-they didn't know for sure!
”He has to be. Why would those two be here without him?”
”I don't know. Skye said Ray's been watching her closely. If he knew about the tree house, he could have come without Kenneth's grandson.”
”Uh oh.”
”What?”
”Another trap door.”
Jamison felt pressure on the hip that covered the escape hatch. He held still, not pus.h.i.+ng back, but not giving way. In his bladder, Jamison's heart moved over to make room for his Dew. If he p.i.s.sed his pants, would they think it was rain?
”A seventeen-year-old couldn't fit through there.”
”But he could be on the roof... You on the roof, Jamison?”
CHAPTER TWO.
Moments earlier...
The silence was broken by a ”Holy s.h.i.+t!” 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 Warren?
Perhaps. Though 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 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.
Unfortunately, that something was being smothered by dread.
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 big brown eyes.
While they'd watched each other over the fence for the past two days, she'd gotten a good look at him. His brows were much darker than his golden blond hair with their ends bowed up like the edge of a bird's 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 foolis.h.!.+ What she should worry about was losing his cooperation, not his approval. Making an enemy of Jamison Shaw would jeopardize her a.s.signment, 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 emotion? 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 G.o.d'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.