Kristie Cook - Promise

"We need to get out of here," she said. " Now ."

I knew the tone and moved as quickly as my aching head allowed. Our moves always felt like forced escapes. Sometimes it was because of an accident, but most often because of the boyfriends. Though this move had actually been planned, it now had the familiar feeling we were once again making an escape. At least this time I knew where we were going and why.

I still felt sluggish as we traveled south on I-95. Images of the werewolf and the witch flashed through my mind. I fell asleep and dreamt about them, but they were good in this dream. Not monsters. And they fell in love. I spent a good portion of the trip outlining a book about their supernatural romance, my first full-length novel that I felt compelled to write immediately.

As the drugged feeling lifted and I could think clearly, I analyzed those strange events. People tried to hurt me and possibly wanted to kill me. I thought. Maybe the werewolf and the witch and the other bizarre parts weren't real. Maybe I hit my head harder than I realized and imagined those parts. Or maybe the real events mashed up with an actual dream and I had everything confused. But I was certain I was attacked. Fairly certain, anyway. And the way the white-blonde said I was "hers" told me it wasn't the last time I'd see her. If she was even real. There seemed to be missing pieces in my memory. Some details, like the wolf's terrifying eyes, were so clear, while others, like my protectors' faces, were blank. This made me question the reality of it all, but I couldn't dismiss the fear. It was too deeply embedded into my memory.

If someone had attacked me, though, Mom would know. She wouldn't have dismissed it so easily. She was too protective of me. Even going off to college on my own was never an option. She gave up her job in corporate sales because, she said, she was ready for a change. She'd been in sales for as long as I could remember and was quite successful at it. One of her quirks was her power of persuasion—she could sell a truckload of beef to a vegan. But she had always wanted to own a bookstore and there happened to be one for sale just ten miles from the college I'd chosen. We were both looking forward to this move and the new life it promised for us. I was glad she was coming with me. She was my best friend, after all. My only friend for years. I had to wonder now, though, if she was really coming to protect me.

Hundreds of miles passed under the truck's wheels before I built the courage to ask.

"Mom…are there people who want to hurt us? I mean, because of who we are?"

She gave me a sideways glance. "Alexis, I would not let anything happen to you."

"I know, but if there are people out there…shouldn't I know? Don't you think it's time I knew things about us?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The corner of her lips turned down in a frown. "I can't tell you, honey. I just can't. Not until the Ang'dora ."

Right. The Ang'dora . The enigmatic "change" that was somehow connected with our quirks and everything that made us weird. I knew little about it. I knew little about us.

"Are you asking because of your dream last night?" she asked. "Because you know it's–"

I cut her off with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. Not real."

I wanted to believe her. That was the easy and safe explanation, but I just knew it was wrong.

Mom held our secrets tightly, even from me, and I'd given up begging for information years ago. She had told me many times she was bound to a promise made when I was an infant. I couldn't know our secrets until I went through the Ang'dora and became more like her. I pretended I didn't care and allowed myself to live behind a façade of normalcy.

Now I did care. Whether I was really attacked or not, it was time I knew who we were and why we had strange quirks. I hated snooping behind her back, but her refusal to explain left no other options.

The move made the first step easy. I volunteered to unpack the house while Mom prepared to open the bookstore. When she took me up on the offer to do her room, I didn't expect to discover anything she didn't want me to. And I didn't. I found false identification for both of us—drivers' licenses, birth certificates, passports and the like—giving us different last names, but they weren't helpful. I grew up with several surnames, a different one each time we moved, though most often we went by "Ames," as we did now. I was pretty sure that was the real one.

I couldn't even research Ames and our other surnames. Besides Sophia and Alexis, I had no first names to go on. We had extended family somewhere, but I'd never met them and Mom rarely discussed them. Without knowing their names, I could have searched genealogical records for years and never known if I was even in the right family. By the time the first day of classes came around, I knew nothing more, but I had a new plan and the college library would be perfect for it.

That was the day the dreams stopped. Until then, I repeatedly dreamt of that strange night, particularly of one of my heroes. Not the one who carried me away, but the other one, the bigger one. I still never saw his face, just a shadowy figure, but it was him. Who are you? My dream-self asked every time. I never received an answer and he stopped visiting my dreams the first day of classes. Perhaps because a very real guy entered my dreams…and my life.

I dropped two classes before school even started. It was actually Mom's idea. I had a novel to write. When she read the outline I developed during our move, she said school could wait, the book couldn't. An unexpected statement from her, but she had more weird quirks than I did, including her own sixth sense. Mine told me if people were unusually good or bad, as if I picked up on a brainwave revealing their overall intentions. Mom could feel truths—and she was never wrong. She felt the truth my book would be published. She even said, mysteriously, it needed to be written.

On the first day of college, with several hours between my morning classes and my one night class, I took the opportunity to do some research and planted my butt in a hard plastic chair at a library computer station. I wasn't researching for my book, though, and not for class either. This time was for me. I finally concluded that all I really could research were our quirks—I knew nothing else about us. I found a somewhat promising trail on the Internet and spent the entire afternoon researching telepaths.

When I was done, I stared at my notes and felt like an idiot. Telepaths?! I seriously wasted hours on telepaths ? I shook my head at the absurdity. Mom and I had quirks, but we certainly couldn't read minds. Besides, telepaths, well, didn't exist . Did they?

I sighed and glanced at the clock, then bolted out of my seat, grabbing my bag and papers. Communications started in five minutes. I rushed through the library, rounded a corner and slammed right into a large, hard body. Sweet and tangy. Mmm…mangos, papayas, lime, sage…and a hint of man . Having a powerful sense of smell was often unpleasant, but it was worth suffering through bad body odor and nasty garbage for this. He smelled delicious. But he sounded annoyed or angry as a low growl rumbled in his chest.

"Sorry," I muttered.

I looked up to see the face belonging to such yumminess. Whoa! Talk about yummy! He was absolutely gorgeous. Too gorgeous. I looked away immediately, embarrassed by my behavior. I bent down to gather the papers I dropped—and so did he. To complete my humiliation, I shocked him with static electricity when our fingers touched. I blushed. He chuckled quietly.

"Alexis Ames," he murmured under his breath. If it hadn't been my own name, I wouldn't have even understood—he said it so quietly. His thumb underlined my name on the class schedule he handed back to me. I took it, mumbled "thank-you" and bolted.