Heather Terrell - Eternity (v5)

Michael laughed even though I wasn’t real y joking. Once he realized that I was serious, he quickly matched my mood. “Believe me, I know they can seem scary at first. But I’l be there to help you. At the beginning, I thought I was the only one with these powers, and it was real y lonely.”

A troubling thought occurred to me. “Is that why you sought me out? So you wouldn’t be alone in al this madness?”

“No, not at al .” We were almost at school, and he pul ed the car into a nearly empty parking lot adjacent to the school gym. He stopped the car, reached out for my hands, and said, “El ie, I sought you out because I was drawn to you on every level. Not just because I saw that you were like me.”

I took a good look into his green eyes, and he appeared sincere. I was relieved, but stil not total y trusting. We’d been on a rol er coaster since the moment we met.

“How did you know that you and I shared these”—I stumbled over the description—“gifts?”

“The first time I saw you, I wasn’t sure. You did seem different from everyone else; you had that glow about you. I’m sure you saw it from that flash I sent you. But on our first date, when I tasted your blood, I knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your blood gave me the whole picture. It showed me your flashes and your flying. I saw that you had the same susceptibility to blood that I do.

And it told me that you were trying to act as though it wasn’t happening. Instead, you’re clinging to this image of a ‘regular girl’ that your parents have hammered into your head.”

“My blood told you al that?”

“Wel , I was real y listening. But blood can tel you almost anything about a person. Didn’t you see that from my blood?”

I blushed, thinking about the image of myself I’d seen when I tasted Michael’s blood. I didn’t know if I was ready for al this—especial y not the “v”

word he mentioned last night, which neither of us had referenced this morning—but I couldn’t pretend that it was just a dream any longer.

Michael leaned in to kiss me. My apprehension forced me to hesitate for a second. But then he caressed my hand. His touch sent shivers through me, reminding me of how his lips and tongue and blood made me feel. Unable to resist, I moved toward him.

A tap sounded on his window. We jumped apart, and stared out. It was Mr. Morgans, the phys ed teacher, motioning that the bel was about to ring.

Chapter Fifteen

Michael and I raced to our respective classes, but not before I agreed to meet him back at his car at the end of the day. The bel finished ringing before I made it to Miss Taunton’s classroom, and she wasn’t about to let me get away with sneaking in the door.

“Miss Faneuil, you know my rules about tardiness. You owe me a ten-page biography of Jane Austen.”

My jaw dropped; she must have been in a real y bad mood because her punishments were usual y in the five-page range. My astonished expression didn’t escape Miss Taunton.

“You don’t like that assignment, Miss Faneuil? You are welcome to detention instead.”

I rushed to accept the lighter sentence. I could just imagine the look in my parents’ eyes if they learned that Michael delivered me late to school to the tune of detention. “No, no, Miss Taunton. I’m happy to learn more about Jane Austen.”

“Good, Miss Faneuil, so am I. I’m sure you’l dazzle me with some esoteric piece of information about one of my favorite writers. Now class, let’s hear from . . .”

As I walked to my seat in the back of the classroom, I caught Ruth’s sympathetic eye. I couldn’t imagine how I’d dredge up fresh biographical details about one of the world’s most written-about authors, but I had more pressing concerns. Michael and our “gifts,” to name a couple.

After I slid into my chair and unzipped my bag, my cel phone quietly vibrated with a text message. The rare occurrence intrigued me; maybe it was Michael. I created a barrier with my bag so I could glance at it. Nothing made Miss Taunton more furious than students checking their cel phones.

I scrol ed to the text: sorry with a sad face. It was from Ruth.

I was confused. Looking to make sure that Miss Taunton was safely engrossed in gril ing another student, I answered. Why? The Austen bio?

The cel vibrated back. No. Your parents.

Oh, no. Between the confusion of the dream and Michael’s unexpected visit this morning, I’d completely forgotten about Ruth’s cal to my parents last night. I felt terrible. Why should she feel bad about cal ing my house when I was the one who didn’t give her the heads-up about meeting Michael? I wrote back: My fault. I’m sorry.

Risking Miss Taunton’s wrath, Ruth turned around in her seat and smiled to show that al was wel . It made me feel even worse, like I’d betrayed my own family. For years, Ruth and I had shared everything with each other. In the absence of other siblings, we’d become like sisters, with my mom even playing the role of mother to Ruth when she needed it. I should be begging forgiveness for keeping secrets and using Ruth as a cover for my date with Michael. Not vice versa.

Worse, I’d have to continue keeping secrets from her. How could I tel her about the flying and the flashes I got about people? Or the way blood affected me? With good reason, she’d run off to my parents, and they’d have me committed. No, I’d have to explore this with Michael alone, while I spun a fairy tale for Ruth about the normal side of my relationship with him.

Miss Taunton’s voice grew shril as she subjected a poor junior named Jamie and his “inadequate” assessment of Jane Austen to her scrutiny. I reached for my bag to slip my cel phone back inside, when it dawned on me that I might have a few free minutes while Miss Taunton continued with her tirade. Yielding to temptation, I searched Wikipedia for “vampire.”

I scrol ed through the long entry, and other than some terrifying definitions of blood-sucking, death-dealing vampires, I didn’t find any descriptions that sounded like Michael or me. Relief coursed through me; maybe Michael was wrong.

The name Professor Raymond McMaster was quoted extensively on the page. There was a link to the Harvard University webpage with his bio.

He was an expert in the history of vampires and other supernatural beings. Some of his academic papers sounded interesting, and I was about to click onto “In search of the real Dracula” when I heard my name.

“Miss Faneuil, am I boring you?”

My head snapped up. Miss Taunton marched toward me. I scrambled to hide the phone under the mound of papers I’d scattered on my desktop.

On top, I placed the paper due. She stopped within inches of me and waited for my answer while the class held its col ective breath.

“Of course not. I was just rereading the paper we’re turning in today.”

Miss Taunton looked over my shoulder at the paper in my hand, smiled, and lunged for it. Her hand brushed against mine, and I received a very intense flash. I was in a fussy, formal-looking living room, complete with lace doilies on the end tables and cloyingly flowery wal paper. For a second, I was disoriented, but then I caught a look in a mirror facing the couch on which I sat. Miss Taunton stared out at me. On her lap was a copy of Wuthering Heights . Tears streamed down her face. She was about to turn the page when I heard my name: “El ie Faneuil.”

The sad image faded, and I found myself staring right into Miss Taunton’s eyes. I nearly wanted to reach over and pat her hand—her life was that pitiful, that macabre—but then she gave me a sick grin. My stomach lurched, and she said, “Thank you for returning to us, Miss Faneuil. I can see how this paper would be far more interesting than what I have to say about Jane Austen. Why don’t you read your paper aloud to the class, since it appears to be so mesmerizing?”