The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) (9 page)

— 20 —

The next morning, I tell Kyla half-truths and try to swallow my guilt down with bitter black coffee.

“I was being an asshole,” I tell her. “I was in that place between fuzzy and drunk where you can either feel awesome or shitty, and I felt kind of shitty. So I chugged the whole bottle of wine. It hit me harder and faster than I had expected, and I guess I fell into the creek.”

“God, Ana, I can’t let you go anywhere by yourself,” Kyla scolds, pouring us both a second cup of coffee.

“I know. I know. I guess I haven’t learned my limitations yet.” I wince and clear my throat. It’s still raw.

“And then what?” Kyla asks, stirring several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee. She sits across from me at the kitchen table, still dressed in her pajamas: a raggedy old
Ghostbusters
tee-shirt with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man on it, and a pair of black fleece pants covered in pitch forks and devil horns.

“Then I panicked. I don’t know—I sloshed around, got my ass beaten by the creek. My ankle got stuck between some rocks, and I couldn’t get it free. I don’t…I don’t remember what happened after that.” I blow on my coffee, hoping my self-effacement is enough to make her believe me.

Kyla shakes her head. “You dumb bitch.”

“Hey.”

“What? I’m mad. I’m mad you almost drowned. It might not make sense, but my heart is in the right place.” She frowns, staring at me. “So then what happened? Trebor dove in an pulled you out?” She asks.

“I don’t know really.”

“He said you weren’t breathing. He said you almost died.” She frowns more deeply.

“He said. Yeah.”

She smiles slightly. “He said he had to give you CPR.”

“Yep.” I frown and lift the bottom of Trebor’s shirt just enough to expose the tender area around my diaphragm at the middle of my long torso. Sure enough, as Trebor had warned me, there are bruises on my chest that make it look more like I was head-butted by a bull rather than drowned. The bruises, combined with all the other sore spots and strained muscles, make it impossible for me to even slouch without my breath being stolen by sudden pain.

Kyla scrunches her nose. “Okay, jeez. That makes it less sexy.”

Kyla’s mind goes wherever it pleases, and I can’t help but laugh at that. But I think about when I came-to, coughing and puking up water, and I have to disagree. “In all reality, there’s nothing very sexy about CPR.”

She arches her shapely eyebrows. “Well, except for the part where I’m guessing he helped undress you so you didn’t freeze to death. You showed up here wearing nothing but your undies and his tee-shirt under that coat! You have to admit, that part is a
little
sexy.”

I shake my head. “You have some strange ideas about sexy.” But I’m glad Kyla has a sense of humor about it. Last night, she was enraged by the prospect that I had nearly drowned in her backyard, and she tossed and turned all night. Several times I woke up because Kyla was watching to make sure I was still breathing.

“So, you’re telling me,” Kyla begins. “That Trebor saved your dumb ass from drowning, and then again from hypothermia by ripping your clothes off and pressing you to his warm, bare, and admittedly well-sculpted man-chest—and it wasn’t sexy at all?” She laughs and arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re batting for the right team, A?”

She paints a fine picture of Trebor in my head, but I push it from my thoughts. “I—I don’t know. I was kind of mind-blown by the fact that I was still alive.” The truth is, I don’t have all that much experience in the realm of
sexy
. I’ve fumbled around under the sheets with one or two boys, but that’s about it. None of my relationships have ever lasted long enough for things to go very far.

Kyla’s lips curve into a sneaky smile. “Well. If the skin on skin wasn’t sexy, you can’t tell me those tattoos aren’t hot.”

I feel my face burning. “Maybe. But Trebor is…he’s kind of weird.”
He’s kind of not human
.

“Anastasia, my darling, you and I are in no position to pass judgment on the weird, the lawless, or the pathologically insane,” Kyla says in her best aristocratic voice. “Besides…you’ve got to give a guy a chance if he saves your life. I think there’s an old and particularly un-feminist law about it.”

“A chance at what?” My brow furrows.

Kyla reaches over to the kitchen island and grabs a piece of paper. She slides it over to me.

It’s a phone number.

I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything. He just wants to make sure I’m okay.”

Kyla stares at me for a few seconds, like she can’t believe me. Then, she just nods. “Okay. If you say so.”

I don’t know why she’s suddenly giving up, but I’m glad; all this talk of
sexy
and
chances
has made my world seem even more out of control than before.

But, while it’s nice to entertain the idea that, for once, Kyla isn’t scheming some way to get me a date for the dance, or to
open myself up to the world
, I can’t help but feel that it’s only because she’s getting sick of trying.

— 21 —

The house is empty when I get home. With nothing but my own racing thoughts to keep me company, I decide I need to do two things,
stat
: practice violin, and take a bath. I hurry upstairs to my room, shrugging off Trebor’s coat along the way. In my bedroom, I empty the coat pockets before hanging it over the back of my desk chair.

I look at my cell phone in my hand and the scrap of paper with Trebor’s phone number scrawled across it. I already put his number into my phone earlier in the day when Kyla wasn’t looking.

I think about texting him.

What would I say?

ANA:
Hey! Thanks again for saving my life :)

No. That’s stupid.

My phone buzzes in my hand as I hold it, making my heart leap. I swipe the screen with my thumb and pull up my message inbox.

KYLA:
get home ok? didnt fall into a puddle and drown or anything???

I roll my eyes, at myself and at my friend.

ANA:
I was akshully just gonna txt you about that- I’m in heaven now. The pizza here is amaaaaaazing

KYLA:
lololol like theyd let you into heaven

I laugh out loud. The sound is strange in the silence of the house, making me self-conscious. I’m used to being home alone; even before my mother passed away, I spent many school nights in our big old house by myself while Dad took Karanina for tests and treatments. The tests had seemed endless. The nights had seemed endless. And all the grief after had seemed endless, too.

And now everything else seems so fleeting, and foreign.

I set the phone down and head into the bathroom to take a bath, trying not to think about the ghosts that haunt the silence of my home.

— 22 —

When I get out of the bath, my father is home. It’s late, and I’m exhausted, so I forego my violin in favor of some “quality time.” I bundle up in a pile of blankets on my living room couch while my father watches television, but I’m barely there, occasionally responding to the smart remarks he makes about various reality TV shows while my attention is focused elsewhere.

My eyes move back and forth between my father’s familiar profile and the open conversation with Kyla on my inbox screen on my phone. I wonder what my father would say if I told him everything that has been going on? Not the near-drowning—God no, he’d worry about me every time I went near a body of water if I told him about that—but the other things. Would he be able to help me, the way fathers help their little girls when they have problems they can’t seem to overcome on their own? Maybe he would try, but in all likelihood, he would probably take me back to the counselor I had to see when mom first got sick.

But what about Kyla? She knows about the Sura I’ve been seeing for the last four years. Why am I suddenly keeping secrets from her?

Maybe it’s because my ability to see into this other world is improving, and my involvement is deepening, while hers remains the same: virtually non-existent.

Maybe some part of me is afraid to get Kyla involved at all, now that it's moved beyond just seeing shadows at dusk and casting protection spells.

Or, maybe I don’t really believe she believes me.

I could call her right now, tell her everything. But I think about dialing Trebor’s number instead, and while my heart shrinks from spilling everything to Kyla, my heart leaps at the idea that he might have the answers I’ve been looking for, to questions I’ve never known how to ask.

Is this how it happens? How Kyla and I finally fall apart? I've been waiting for it to happen since she told me she was skipping 8th grade and going straight into high school. I waited for it while my peers grew more aggressive and cruel, while her friends ignored me, while the walls around my heart rose higher and higher. Some days, I don't know why Kyla has remained my friend, outside of her unyielding sense of loyalty.

But she's getting fed up with me, I can sense it. She's sick of my need to protect myself, my refusal to let others in. She's probably sick of being my best friend—really, my only friend. Now my walls are climbing higher, and soon even she won’t be able to scale them.

I don’t want that
. I just don’t know what else to do.

My phone vibrates. Another conversation appears in my inbox—Andy.

ANDY:
Hey, how you feeling kid?

I stare at his text message, feel odd about it, wonder if I should respond to it. I could not and say I was sleeping. Or, I could just be normal for once in my life and communicate.

ME:
Tired, but ok. Thanks for asking

I blink. Even my texts look noncommittal and apathetic. Why do I suck at human interaction?

ANDY:
Hey we were all worried about you

ANDY:
And I was hoping you'd be up for coffee later maybe

I gawk at what my phone is saying. Is he asking me out on a date? No. He just wants to talk to me about the Ouros, I’m certain.

ME:
I think I'm going to bed early tonight actually, sorry : /

Emoticons make everything okay.

ANDY:
oh yeah, understandable.

ANDY:
what about tomorrow?

I blink again. Persistent, huh? Well, Kyla insists he's okay. She insists he's safe. He has been nice. And I can’t think of a good lie to get out of it right now.

ME:
sure. what time were you thinking?

ANDY:
awesome! williamsville sbux at 2?

ME:
sounds good. see you then

ANDY:
great! have a good night!

I swallow.

Well, that just happened.

“Who you chatting with?” My dad asks.

“Um, a guy from school,” I mention casually. “He’s interested in the history of mom’s clan, he wants to get together and talk about it some time.”

My dad’s eyes slide over to me in a way I’ve never seen them move before. I can’t read him sometimes, not like I can read most people, and it unnerves me.

“Is that so?” He wonders, almost to himself.

“Yeah. It’s one of Kyla’s friends. We’re going to get coffee tomorrow.”

His expression softens. “Sure it’s not a date?”

I squirm in my blanket mountain. “Dad. It’s not a date. I don’t date guys from my school. Guys from school don’t want to date me.”

My father laughs. “Sure, sweetheart.”

“What?”

He chuckles. “Nothing. I’m not good at these kinds of
self-esteem
boosting conversations.”

“I don’t need you to boost my—”

“Listen. I’m just trying to say this in the least cheesy way possible. Let me get it out: you’re stunning, Ana. Maybe you’re not a model or a movie star, but you’re unique—you have an unconventional look, and it makes you stand out. I know, I know—standing out has made you a target for a lot of bullying. But you’re going to love those things about you that stand out some day. Trust me on that.” He turns back to the television. “In the mean time, you’re building character, and I think that scares me even more. You’ll be a double threat when you’re all grown up, if you aren’t already. And probably a heartbreaker, like your mother.”

“Da-aad.” I blush and squirm down lower into my blankets.

“Take it from a man who almost missed his chance with the girl of his dreams because he was too afraid: You’re right, you’re not the kind of girl they’d date, at least not at this age. You’re the kind of girl they fall in love with, and nothing is more frightening than that to most young men.”

“Da-aaaad,” I groan again. And then I mumble: “Thank you.”

He smiles, and arches an eyebrow. “Now stop getting detentions.”

“Yes, Sir.” I laugh. It feels nice to have a normal conversation with my father, even if it is the clumsy heart-to-heart kind he’s so fond of lately. Not that I’m about to start basing my self confidence on what my father says about me, but he does have a nice way of putting things into a less adolescent-based perspective. I appreciate his—awkward—efforts. They help.

Confidence boosted, I stare at my phone for a second, and start to compose a new message, heart galloping in my chest.
Hey,
I begin to type.
I’ve got your coat…

But a message appears in the conversation before I even have a chance to finish.

TREBOR:
Hey, it’s Trebor. I got your number from Andy—I hope you don’t think that’s too weird. I just wanted to check in and make sure you were doing okay today.

I stare at his perfect punctuation, spelling, grammar—in a text message. He really isn’t human.

But a slow smile has crept across my face regardless, and my stomach is suddenly filled with fireflies.

ME:
It IS weird actually. YOU are weird. Im changing your name to Weirdo in my contacts

TREBOR:
Oh, so you already have my name in your contacts. I’ll take that as a good sign.

My eyes widen, caught in the act of maybe thinking about him when he’s not around. I blush involuntarily at the accidental reveal.

TREBOR:
But really, are you feeling okay?

ME:
I’m fine. a few scrapes and bruises but I’ll live

ME:
thank you. again. for saving me.

TREBOR:
You don’t have to thank me. It looks like you’ve got enough trouble on your hands

ME:
Meaning?

There is a long pause.

TREBOR:
I think you know. The Sura are interested in you.

I hunch down further inside my mountain of blankets and stare at the words. They don't come as a surprise—
I
knew they were watching me—but seeing it spelled out, knowing the words come from someone else, makes it more real, more true. And the fact that there is someone else out there who even
knows
about Sura makes it more frightening.

I debate what to write back. In the end, I decide to push forward through my discomfort.

ME:
apparently you’re interested in me too. whats your deal Trebor?

I wait, and hope he'll respond. A minute passes, then two, as I stare at my phone, willing a new message to appear. My father changes the television channel and yawns. Nothing happens.

Something inside of me shrivels. Desperation seeps out, fingers reaching for the fleeing possibility of the answers I had hoped he could provide.

ME:
at least tell me what kind of danger I'm in. please.

I'm surprised when the reply comes swiftly.

TREBOR:
I don't know yet. I'm trying to find out.

It's not the relieving response I was hoping for.

ME:
do you know why this is happening to me?

TREBOR:
Because you can see more than you should be able to.

ME:
do you know why I can see more than I should be able to?

Pause.

TREBOR: No.

ME: and what if the sura want me dead? or worse.

TREBOR: I won't let that happen.

I bite my lip, not really convinced his assurance is good enough.

ME:
I don't want to sound ungrateful but why do you care?

There is a long pause, during which a thousand fears and hopes are born, live, and die in the fertile void of my mind, and I can’t tell any of them apart in order to align myself with any single one of them. Finally, my phone buzzes with his response.

TREBOR:
Because, as you said, apparently I'm interested in you too.