Evan Elemental (The Evan Elemental Series) (3 page)

Lilian
smiles in return, but it
doesn't quite meet her eyes. She pats my knee and leaves the room without
saying anything more. My hand finds its way to the heart-shaped lump just
beneath my sweater. I trace the outline of the pendent with my finger.

It must
be my imagination again, because I feel the stone grow warm to my touch. It
becomes so hot that I'm sure that my skin is burned. I sit up and pull off my
sweater. Gently, I push the pendant aside and find myself unharmed. I press my
palm flat over the stone. Once again it's cool.

The
drive from Connecticut to Upstate New York is long and wet. Spring rain soaks
the landscape, turning the foliage a bright green and the earth a depthless
black. We're driving my parents' red Cadillac, which they had left to
Lilian
. The car cuts noiselessly along the New York thruway
pulling me closer to the answers I'm sure only my grandmother can give me. I
don't think it's a coincidence that the necklace came on the same day I was
told I had to go live with her.

Even
though I'm sitting perfectly still, my heart is pounding against my ribs. It
doesn't help that the stone on my necklace has burned like molten lava against
my skin since I woke up this morning. I don't mention any of this to
Lilian
, because I'm pretty sure I'm imagining it, most
likely because I've gone nuts. Maybe I hit my head in the accident and the
doctors had failed to notice that I'm brain-damaged.

Fields
and farmhouses flit by one after another making it seem like we're on some sort
of endless loop. I have no idea where we're actually going. I don't bother to
ask and
Lilian
doesn't bother to tell me. All that I
know is that
Lilian's
right eyebrow shot up and her
face folded into a bemused expression when she read the paperwork Mr. Montrose
gave her. Since we're going to my grandmother's, I can only assume we're
heading toward my mother's hometown.

I'm
contemplating a nap when the car starts to slow. The GPS is prompting us to
take an exit on the right. I sit up and glance at the sign. My heart stills its
furious beating. I turn questioningly to
Lilian
but
she keeps her eyes on the road.

"Lil,
I thought mom was from Greendale."

Lilian
is silent for a moment before
she answers. "So did I."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean that your mother was not from Greendale. She was raised in a town called
Price,"
Lilian
says with a hint of finality. At
least I'm not alone in my surprise.

I gulp,
the letters on the sign flashing before me in my mind. "Price? As in Magda
Price?"

Lilian
finally looks at me, her mouth
twisted into a wry grin. "The one and only."

.

We end
up somewhere northwest of Albany, in a tiny quaint town where all the streets
are lined with flowering trees that are heavy with wet, unopened buds. The main
street is paved with brick and teems with gleaming storefronts and ornate
public buildings.

I take
in this small glimpse of the town with an uneasy feeling as
Lilian
drives straight through. She follows Main Street until the brick begins to
peter out and is replaced by a smooth dark road. The pavement is so dark that I
imagine it would look wet even when it's dry. The trees that line this stretch
of Main Street are tall and leafy and incredibly still; there are no buildings
or houses on either side of the road.

Eventually,
we take a left turn that brings us up a long paved driveway that ends in an
enormous wrought-iron gate. There's a little black box with a speaker on the
left that
Lilian
mutters into until the gates begin
to slowly swing open.

I'm
prepared for a big house, a mansion even. I'm not prepared to find an exact
replica of a noble English estate in Upstate New York. The house, if you can
call it that, is easily four stories high and outdoes any imagination of Mr.
Darcy's
Pemberley
. It's built from brick the color of
aged parchment.

Tall
windows that gleam look down on a lush landscape that's been carefully molded
with neatly trimmed hedges and ornamental trees. The buds of hundreds of
flowers are heavy with rain and aching to burst. In the center of it all is a
giant three-tiered neoclassical marble fountain, which is empty save for the
murky rainwater that has collected in the bottom of each of its three basins.

Lilian
and I turn to each other, our
mouths gaping. We both had clearly underestimated what Mr. Montrose had meant
by "very wealthy." The idea that this was my mother's childhood home
is impossible to swallow. Our four-bedroom colonial back in Connecticut is
practically a cottage compared to what stands before us.

"I
can't do this." My voice barely registers as a croak because my mouth has
suddenly gone sandpaper-dry. There is no way in hell I'm moving into this
place, on the edge of some creepy little town in the middle of nowhere, with a
crazy old lady I haven't seen in over a decade. Instead, I'll just run away
until I turn eighteen and no one can make me do anything anymore.

Lilian's
laughter cuts into my panicked
thoughts. I stare at her as she bends over and continues to laugh herself into
hysterics.

"What
the fuck,
Lilian
," I spit out, trying, and
failing, to sound pissed.

That
just makes her laugh harder. Tears are streaming down her face and she grips
the steering wheel for support. I try to be mad, but her laughter is contagious
and soon I'm shaking with my own hysterical giggles. We stop only when a sharp
wrap on the window startles us into silence.

A
gorgeous woman, with pale blonde hair that's cut in a severe line at her chin
and icy blue eyes that bear no hint of amusement, gazes at us through the
driver-side window. I gulp down the last of my giggles and step out of the car.

.

Ms.
Icy-blue eyes turns out to be Greta, my grandmother's assistant. Greta
regretfully informs us that Ms. Price has been called out of town at the last
minute on an urgent business matter, but assures us that she'll return in three
days.
Lilian
is understandably outraged; she tries to
insist on staying with me until Magda gets back, but I refuse to let her.

"Aunt
Lil," I plead gently, "it'll just be easier if you go now. It's not
like I don't want you to stay. It's just that..."

"Evan,"
she sighs, "it's OK. I understand." My expression is doubtful which
makes her laugh. "Really, I do."

We
stand awkwardly for a few moments in the entryway, which is actually a giant
marble hall that stretches into an enormous white marble staircase outfitted
with a plush red carpet. A chandelier with about a million crystals practically
floats above us.

Greta
clears her throat softly and gives us a smile that seems easy but doesn't reach
her eyes.
Lilian
smiles too, but her smile hides a
multitude of secret feelings and comes from a deeper place. She places her hand
on the side of my face before turning to leave. We don't say goodbye. We never
do.

The big
oak doors thud softly into place as she leaves. Greta gestures for me to follow
her. She drones on and on about the features of the house as she leads me on a
mini tour, but I'm too distracted to focus.

"Evan,
sweetheart, I am so sorry about the tragedy that brought you here, but you
really need to pay attention if you want to be able to find your way around.
I'm only here for the day, and then I need to join Ms. Price."

I give
her a blank look and she sighs, moving on. The tour ends at my new bedroom.
Most of my luggage is already there. It's not much. I basically just packed
most of my clothes and my books, along with a few mementos to remind me of my
home and my parents. Everything else has been packed up and placed into storage
until I'm ready to deal with it, if that time ever comes.

Greta
seems unconcerned by my lack of belongings. In fact, she proclaims that it's
much better to start from scratch in circumstances like these. Before she
leaves me to my own devices, she gives me an envelope that has a debit card and
the details of my personal bank account. I just stare at it, dumbfounded. I've
never been given so much as an allowance. The bank account my parents set up
for me holds the accumulation of birthday and holiday savings, which is a
paltry sum compared to what I've just been handed. Not that I've ever gone
without, it's just that my parents operated on a less is more basis. As in, the
less I took for granted the harder I worked for what I did have.

Greta
has a pleased look on her face as she watches me take it all in. "When
you're ready, it will be arranged for you to be taken to town where you can do
some shopping and get to know the area." She turns to leave, but pauses
and looks back at me over her Chanel-clad shoulder. "We are all so happy
to have you here." Her smile is genuine for the first time since I met
her.

The
door snaps shut leaving me alone. I feel the beginnings of a panic attack rise
in my chest, cutting off my breath. I squeeze my eyes shut and reach for my
necklace. My fingers find their way easily to the smooth lump just above my
breast.

I press
my palm firmly to the stone, feeling it burn
a gentle
warmth into my hand. The warmth seems to saturate my skin and seep into my
blood where it travels to my heart and calms me. I breathe in and out a few
times before opening my eyes and turning to face my new life.

My new
bedroom is the size of my living room and dining room back home, combined. On
one end, there is a four-poster bed dressed in light blue silk hangings and
dark blue Egyptian-cotton bedding. The duvet is covered in blossoms stitched
with gold thread. The bed itself is made out of a dark polished wood that
contrasts sharply with the pale blue hangings but compliments the bedding
perfectly. On either side of the king-sized bed are nightstands made of the
same wood. They are bare on top, except for a smattering of silver
candleholders in different shapes and sizes, each outfitted with buttery yellow
candles. The drawers on each small table are adorned with sterling silver
drawers pulls.

Opposite
the bed is an ornate white marble fireplace. It would seem as though the entire
place is carved out of one giant piece of white marble, if it wasn't for the
lush dark wood floors. Two matching sky-blue sofas sit facing each other in
front of the fireplace. Between them, a coffee table, the same wood as
everything else, rests on an ornate rug woven with designs in red, blue, and
gold.

The
room is empty save for those few furnishings, but it doesn't exactly feel
empty. The soft gray wallpaper and dark wood French doors,
that
appear
to open to a balcony, give the room a cozy fullness.

In the
corner, by the bed, I notice an antique wooden writing desk. The wood is
lighter than everything else, almost red. There is an off-white colored inkblot
and small gas lamp on top, but nothing else. It's placed just below the window
so that one could sit and look out over the landscape while they contemplated
their thoughts. Charming.

My eyes
drop from the window to the lamp on the desk. The sight of it makes me realize
that it's the first piece of lighting I've seen in the room, besides the
candles. There is no overhead light and no electric lamps of any sort. I pick
up one of the smaller bags and amble over to the desk, pulling out my laptop
and setting it in the center of the inkblot. I kneel down and search the
molding at the base of the wall for an empty outlet.

There
isn't one. A quick glance around the empty walls confirms that there isn't a
single outlet in the entire room. I stand up and wrap my arms around myself, a
shiver passing through me. The whole place feels spooky enough and now there
isn't any electricity?

Well,
I'm sure there's electricity somewhere, just not in my bedroom. I muster a bit
of resolve and try the door next to the bed figuring it would be a closet.
Instead, I find a surprisingly modern bathroom. Of course, it's all white
marble, but it's also chrome taps and sharp angles set in glass. There's a deep
soaking tub and large stand-in shower that fill the room nicely. The best part,
though, is all the pretty sparkling outlets.

With a
surge of excitement I set out to search for the longest extension cord I can
find. I have no idea where to start and the idea of even stepping out of my new
room and into this giant monster of a house is terrifying, but I take a deep
breath and throw open the door.

The
hall outside my room is still and absent of all sound. I find myself tip-toeing
without really meaning to. After a few minutes of aimless wandering while I try
to find the staircase back down to the entryway, I really start to regret not
paying attention during Greta's tour.

Two or
three wrong turns lead me down a long corridor lined with paintings. I stop
before a portrait of a woman with an expression of secret amusement painted
across her face. She's dressed in eighteenth century garb and her soft brown
hair is piled high on her head in a careful arrangement of curls. A ghost of a
feeling passes through me. It starts with a twinge and erupts in a tremble. The
stone heart, forgotten beneath the high neckline of my black cotton dress,
burns a white-hot heat that radiates across my skin. I'm so engrossed in the
sensation that I fail to notice that I'm no longer alone.

Someone
nearby clears their throat softly and shakes me from my trance. Startles, I
turn to face the intruder. My eyes fall on a devastatingly handsome boy. No
lie, the boy is gorgeous. He has hair the color of wet earth and eyes that are
almost black. He's dressed entirely in black, from his fitted t-shirt and tight
leather pants down to his scuffed motorcycle boots. In his hand he's holding a
soft-looking, well-worn, black leather jacket.

"Lost?"
the boy asks. His voice is somehow light and dark at the same time and his dark
eyes dance with amusement.

"No,"
I reply in a strangled voice that makes me cringe on the inside.

His
mouth turns up at the corner and he takes a few steps toward me. Reflexively, I
step back. The boy stops mid-step and smiles. He reaches up with his free hand
and rubs his jaw thoughtfully, as if he's considering his approach. I feel heat
rising to my face. In seconds I'll be neon pink and there's nothing I can do to
stop it. My hands itch to tug at my clothes or the end of my ponytail, but I
force my limbs to remain still and my shoulders straight.

There's
something about him that makes me feel uneasy, but in a good way. It's like
we're old friends who haven't seen each other in years because we're having a
silent conversation that seems too intimate for strangers. My inclination is to
break the silence with nervous chatter, which isn't something I would normally
do, but I let it go on until it's so deep I'm forgetting to breathe.

I'm
afraid that if I open my mouth and say something stupid it'll cause him to
leave. I let his eyes, the perfect contrast to my own light
gray,
bore in to me until he seems to reach some sort of conclusion. He nods once and
clears his throat again.

"I
apologize, for the intrusion," he says, his lips turning up into an easy
smile. "Evangeline?"

Unnerved,
I nod. His eyes warm slightly and his smile widens. "Let me introduce
myself. My name is
Lex
." He pauses and bows
deeply before continuing; I stifle a giggle. "I work for your grandmother.
She sent me to make sure you have everything you need and that you transition
easily."

"What
about Greta?" I manage, after a pause. I know she's leaving, but surely
this is more her kind of thing. The boy in front of me is just that, a boy. The
way he speaks is strangely formal, and doesn't fit at all with how he's
dressed, but I doubt he's older than twenty.

"Greta
has to leave and join Ms. Price. I'm afraid I'm all you've got."
Lex
gives me a half shrug and waits for me to respond. He
takes a few tentative steps towards me. When I don't protest, he closes the
rest of the space between us until he's standing unnecessarily close.

"When
will she be back? Ms.
Pr
- my grandmother, I
mean," I practically stutter, undone by the sensation that being so close
to him causes.

"I'm
not quite sure but, trust me, you'll be the first to know," he says with a
wink.

I frown
at his condescending tone. He's talking to me like I'm a mental patient about
to have a meltdown any second. All things considered, I feel like I've been
handling myself pretty well in the last few weeks. I square my shoulders and
make to walk by him, back the way I came. A shock jolts me when he reaches out
and gently grabs my arm, stopping me.

Lex
looks down into my eyes,
searching for something and coming up short. "Evangel..."

"Evan.
You can call me Evan," I say, cutting him off, my voice stronger than I
feel.

His
hand falls away from my arm and I feel a pang of loss that I can't easily
explain away. A dark look passes over his face and his eyebrows knit together.
"Evan, then," he responds, his voice strained. His eyes no longer
hold any hint of amusement.

I wait
for him to continue but he doesn't say anything. I cock my head to the side and
raise an eyebrow questioningly.

"Well,"
he says finally in that
same
strained voice. "I
just wanted to let you know that if you need anything I'll be in the guest
house. Greta will get hold of you before she leaves and fill you in on the
details."

Without
excusing himself, he saunters away and disappears down a bend in the hall. I'm
left with a cold feeling that penetrates deep into my bones. I don't understand
how he went from being polite, and maybe even flirty, one minute to giving me a
distinct brush off the next. Something happened when he touched me and I have
no idea what. Great. My first day here and things are already starting to get
complicated.