Part 8 (2/2)

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 a.s.sumed, 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 saddened to be losing dear Warren 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 Warren 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 a.s.signment 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...

Skye had always wished she could taste peach jam, but she suddenly scratched it from her wish list.

She turned her back; she couldn't watch. Lucas and Jonathan would keep him safe. Besides, she and the boy would both be embarra.s.sed 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 partic.i.p.ation. 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.

CHAPTER THREE.

”There's the bell. You'd better get going.” Jamison's mom gave him a subtle squeeze and turned toward the parking lot.

He hoped she wouldn't look back because he wasn't moving an inch until Ray showed up. Screw first period.

Mom didn't look back, but before her car pulled onto the street a green BMW screamed into the s.p.a.ce she'd just left.

Okay, actor boy. Act cool. You saw nothing. She knows nothing. I was never there.

The door opened and a ball of white and gray unfurled. He watched like someone had commanded him not to take his eyes off her. So much for cool.

She must be cold. More layers than usual. A leather book bag dug into her shoulder. A white glove pushed the door shut and she turned. Sungla.s.ses. Clever.

Were they allowed to wear sungla.s.ses? Plastic, black sungla.s.ses?

”Hey.” She smiled as she walked toward him, but she revealed nothing. ”You're Kenneth's grandson.” She held out a gloved hand and stopped two feet away. Guess she forgot she was in a hurry.

”That's me.”

”You're wondering if I'm allowed to wear sungla.s.ses.”

Holy s.h.i.+t, he thought, but he kept his face blank, except for his raised eyebrow. Granddad had taught him that, years ago.

”I'm teasing. Don't imagine I can read minds. I just get asked that every time I wear them.” She started to take them off, took one look into his eyes, then replaced them.

”Hungover?” He couldn't believe he just asked, but he covered the slip with a friendly smile.

”That's not allowed.” She laughed. ”But I am allowed to shake hands.”

Stupid! Her hand was still out there, hanging!

He grabbed it a little fast, a little hard, but she just laughed again. It wasn't a silly Tickle-Me-Elmo laugh like most girls. It was a real laugh, like...the kind of laugh that made you think a person got you. And he wished there was a stupid red b.u.t.ton on her palm he could push to hear it again.

Push here.

He still held her hand, not looking up as a kid ran past even though he felt the guy staring. Her gloves were the softest he'd ever felt, like the angel hair his mother always laid under the nativity scene at Christmas time.

”Lamb's wool. Nice, huh?”

”Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, still holding firm. She'd given him the excuse. Not his fault. ”Like angel hair.”

She s.n.a.t.c.hed back her hand, biting her bottom lip.

”Nope. Just wool.” She cleared her throat. ”I'm Skye.”

”Skye what?”

What an idiot. He'd let a little bit of small talk make him forget all about Ray and Burke, about what the Somerleds may have done to them to keep them from making it to school that morning. Ray knew how Jamison dreaded that first day. If somewhere, deep down, there was any trace of the best friend he'd grown up with, Ray wouldn't let him down today. Not if he had a choice.

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