Veined (A Guardian of the Angels Novel) (2 page)

Then he jumped into the car and sped away.

CHAPTER 2

JEFFREY OPENED THE
passenger door of Dad’s cruiser for me
.
It had been a quiet drive from the hospital, and while I appreciated everyone’s concern, it was time to lighten the mood. I stumbled out and looked at Dad over the roof. “This car’s a monstrosity.” 

“What? This?” He shut the car door and walked around the hood, shaking his head. “It’s the newest model. And I was only able to get one because we’d just moved here and I needed a cruiser. Plus, I think they all felt sorry about the accident.”

I cringed and moved to the front of the car, keeping my distance from the bumper and headlights. Combined, they looked like a wolf baring its teeth. “Well, I guess it might scare some people out of trouble.”

Dad placed an arm around my shoulder, the Foxtin Police Department emblem scratching my neck. It was weird to think he wasn’t with the Portland Police anymore.

“Leave the luggage, Melissa,” Dad said. “I’ll bring it in.”

Mom smiled, and sailed up the lavender lined path like she was glad to be home. I wished I felt the same, but this place was four unknown walls and a roof to me.

“You working tonight?” I asked Dad, as he lightly laid a hand on my shoulder.

“Not tonight. It’s strictly family time.”

“Why didn’t you park this pretty little thing in the garage?” I asked.

“Hey, hey, to a cop behind the wheel, this
thing
’s magnificent.” Dad waggled his finger before gesturing to the garage. “And your old car’s in there. There’s only room for one, and I use Rocky every day, so it made sense. But I guess you’ll be using yours for school soon. If you’re up to driving, of course.”

Dad dumped a few bags on the lawn as I moved to the garage door, its white color tinged pink in the setting sun. It was light to pull up, squeaking as it slid against the rollers. My turquoise Toyota with pop-up headlights stared at me.

As I ran a hand over the top of the roof, I thought about the run of bad luck I’d had with the car. It’d broken down twice while I’d been alone in it, one of those times on the highway. I’d filled the tank with diesel by accident and had to have it pumped. The only date I’d had in the car had turned out horrible, and worse, it’d gone on longer than it should have because the battery had gone flat.

A glare hit my eyes. I looked to see a black motorbike leaning against the back wall, its mirror reflecting the evening sun. My insides crawled as if they were made up of tiny insects. I jumped back, my heart racing.

“Shoot.” Dad raced to the end of the garage. He picked up a paint splattered sheet lying on top of cardboard boxes, and threw it over the bike. “The cover must’ve slipped off, sorry.”

I tried to control the anger and fear curdling my blood. I didn’t understand why my body convulsed and my eyes watered. Looking at the ceiling, I forced myself to concentrate on the suspiciously unstable shelving partially hanging over my car.

Dad tucked me into his arms. “If you need to talk about the accident . . .”

I pulled away from him, coldness replacing his embrace. “I don’t remember. How did it happen?” My breathing quickened and white dots cluttered my vision. How did I end up in a
coma
?

“We don’t know all the details. Y
ou were alone.” Dad’s voice hardened, anger edging his words. “You took your mom’s motorbike. The roads were slippery. You lost control.”

I fumbled for my necklace and
rubbed the stone under my thumb. I’d been doing it constantly since leaving the hospital. Just touching something,
anything
, helped. “I’m . . .” I closed my eyes. Sure I had paid for my mistake, but I’d made them pay, too. “I’m sorry.”

The side of Dad’s mouth quirked into a sad smile. “Just as well you recovered. I was tempted to tell Albelin you weren’t allowed to listen to any music as punishment.” He kneaded his forehead with his fist. “I’ve never bee
n so angry, Sylva. . . . It hurt so much. . . .”

We stood there for
a long moment. I bowed my head away from his gaze. I couldn’t stand how his eyes were clouded with worry.

My legs shook with exhaustion, and I reached for the door leading from the garage into the house. Dad trailed behind me with the bags. A coat rack was on one side of the entrance and a small bookshelf was across from it.

On top were a bunch of photos. One of Mom in her graduation gown outside our old home. Dad in his Portland police uniform. Jeffrey presenting the crystals he’d grown for his school’s science fair. And in the center was a picture of me with my head thrown back, laughing.

Splintered memories wormed deeper inside me. My own fault it hurt. The coma may have smashed my past like glass, but it’d been my stupidity that had gotten me into the coma in the first place.

I trailed a finger over the pictures, lingering on the background in the photo of Mom. Our Portland home. I stopped at the candid shot of me. Where the other frames had a fine layer of dust, this one had been recently polished.

Tears slid down my cheek and plopped onto my arm. “Can you show me
my room?” I kept my back to Dad. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. I’d put him, my family, through enough sadness already. They didn’t need to worry about mine on top of it all.

Dad led me up a set of stairs
and showed me my room. “You have a great view of an acorn tree.”

I managed a small smile at his effort to give the dark room a positive spin. “It’s great. Thanks.”

Dad dropped my duffel bag and shuffled out the door. “I’ll let you have some time to yourself. If you need anything, just yell.”

His footsteps faded, and when I was sure no one could hear, I let the sob out that had been building in my throat since the hospital.

I scanned the room through blurry eyes. Tree leaves cast elongated shadows from the west-facing windows. The leafy tips had the signature golds and reds of fall, which meant in the upcoming months, a little more light would filter through. For the moment, though, the layered shadows gave me the feeling of being boxed in.

Flinging the windows open, I wished a breeze would waft around me. Strands of red hair clung to my face as air whirled into the room.

I kicked off my shoes and sprawled on the double bed, rubbing my soles against the soft cotton blanket.

A scratchy meow came from my right. I sat up. “Mottle!” I leapt over to the windowsill where the cat perched, and rubbed my face into her patchy grey and brown fur. Her purring soothed some of my aching.

A hiss. I snapped my head up in the direction Mottle was looking. “What is it, Mots?”

Gold flickered in the tree in front of me. My back tingled. And, although it was most likely part of a leaf, I searched for the pair of golden eyes I’d seen earlier. Something about them nagged at me.

Jeez, was I losing it? Albelin did warn me that I might have a few head problems. Yet those eyes had seemed so real.

I reached for the raised mark over my shoulder. My fingers twitched. I ripped off my
T-shirt and searched the room for a mirror. I opened the wardrobe to find several square feet of space and a long mirror propped up on a chair. Pulling the chain dangling from the ceiling, light filled the wardrobe, and I squeezed in. There was just enough room. Scrunching my T-shirt in my hands, I twisted to look at my back.

My breath caught. The mark was so perfectly round, the spirals inside like a three dimensional tattoo, the way the form jutt
ed out from the rest of my back . . . and it
tingled
like a light hand brushing over sensitive skin. I blinked. Did it look
brighter
? 

Through the wall I heard my parent’s bedroom door open. Taking the top with me, I rushed out to the hall. “Mom.” My voice sounded edgy. Nervous.

She faced me, her eyes half closed and crusted with tiredness. “Hmm?”

“I . . .
” What was I supposed to say?
Hey, Mom, this thing on my back, how long till it disappears, because it’s glowing and that freaks me out?
Pulling my arms through the sleeves of my T-shirt, I said, “Um, what did Albelin say about the mark on my back?” Awkwardly, half in the top, I grabbed my wavy red hair and turned, so Mom would have a proper view of it.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Sylva,” she said. I could hear how she fought a yawn. “Albelin said it’s a result of the treatment.” She couldn’t hold it back anymore and her next words came out stretched. Undecipherable.

“What did he say?” I asked, tucking my head into the top and flattening the soft cotton over the curves of my hips.

“He said it’s possible it might feel different from the rest of your skin, especially when you’re experiencing strong emotions. I think he said it had something to do with your hormones or adrenalin. Everyone has different reactions to electro-magnetism, and if you start to feel weak, or particularly lethargic, we should take you back to see him.” Mom shuffled closer, until she had me within her arms. She rested her head on my shoulder. “But you’re going to be fine.” It sounded as if she were reassuring herself more than me.

My voice stuck. When it came back to me it was rough. “Go get some sleep, Mom.”

She pulled away and nodded. When her heavy-lidded eyes turned away, I headed back to my room.

Mots hadn’t moved from the sill. She meowed, her paw reaching out toward the acorn tree as if she were fishing. Something moved in the shadows of the leaves.

My mark flared with heat, and I raced to the open window. I crouched up on the sill next to Mots, judging the distance to the nearest branch. I should be able to make the five-foot jump. I’d been doing gymnastics sin
ce I was five. But . . . I’d not set foot on a beam, let alone a branch, since before the accident. Could I still do it?

I looked down at the two-story
fall onto the clumpy grass below. If I fell and managed to land upright, I’d probably end up with a twisted ankle. And that was the best-case scenario.

Coldness settled over me. I scrambled off the sill, my arms shaking. This was exactly the type of reckless behavior that got me weeks in a coma and forced my family to leave Portland.

I took the safer route and checked out the tree from the garden. Nothing but leaves. I frowned. Mots
was
old. Maybe she was getting senile. I’d let her fish in peace next time. Save my imagination from running wild.

I gazed up at the net of branches once more, concentrating on the feeling between my shoulder blades.

Nope. No burning. Nothing.

CHAPTER 3

“COULD I START
school tomorrow
?”

It’d been nearly a month since I’d gotten back from the hospital. And I was bored witless, moping about the house every day. And frustrated. I’d tried ringing and texting Shirley but both her home line and cell phone numbers didn’t exist, according to the telephone company. All my emails came back with a delivery failure message, so I’d been forced to long-hand it, and sent a letter via snail mail. Three weeks now, and I’d still not heard a word. If this continued, I was going to have to drive to Chicago and catch a plane to see her.

The only way I could imagine things getting better was if I had a distraction. Like starting school. And the sooner the better.

“On a Friday?”  Dad gave me a puzzled expression that shouted
What teenager wants to start a new school before she has to?
He slurped up a fork full of spaghetti. “Um . . . I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

Mom nudged him, knocking his glass so it almost tipped. “The thing is,” she said. “I know we haven’t discussed this yet, but your doctor suggested, and I agree, that you have transition help. It’s for people who’ve come out of a coma to adjust to school life.”

My voice picked up a notch or two. “Are you talking about some type of buddy-system?” Having someone trail me around all day? Great. A sure way to become the school outcast.

Dad’s voice was calm. “It’s not going to be publicized around the school. He’s just another student whose been trained to help transitioning students. He’ll be around, but as far as I understood from Albelin, he won’t be attached to your hip. He’ll just be there if you happen to need to talk to somebody, or if you’re having difficulty with some things because of your accident.”

I woke up, thrashing in my sheets. Air from the open window whirled in my room, scattering loose paper off my desk. How silly of me not to have shut it overnight. I glanced at
my alarm clock. Six a.m. If I showered and dressed quickly enough I’d catch the sunrise.

With one leap, I was out of bed, shivering, thanks to the freaking cold floorboards. I slipped on a pair of socks and shut the window. A thick layer of fog blurred the acorn tree. A sunrise would have been a nice start to the morning, but a fog as dense as this was an even better one. If it lasted long enough, I would be able to slip into my new school without being seen.

After I’d showered, I wriggled into a pair of jeans. As I pulled them over my scar, I slowed.
From a motorbike accident. One I still can’t remember.

I yan
ked on the rest of my clothes. It was a good thing the weather was cold. I didn’t have to worry about what clothes I could wear that would cover my mark. Since the day I’d left the hospital, the feeling in it had disappeared, but it remained as vividly blue. It didn’t seem likely to fade anytime soon.

Stashed in my desk drawer, next to my iPod, was a spiral bound notepad. I slipped it into my shoulder bag and dashed downstairs. Dad had left a scribbled map of how to get to school on the dining room table with a set of keys on top. I stuffed them into my pocket, fed the cat, and chucked an apple in my bag.
Before I knew it, I was rolling the car smoothly out of the garage. I left it running while I went to shut the garage door, shivering involuntarily at the sight of the black motorbike leaning against the back wall. I rolled the door shut, blocking the view.

“Come on Oak Street. Where are you hiding?” I mumbled, and glanced at Dad’s rough sketch again as I drove down a main road. Next time I would check the directions myself, Dad had probably overlooked a turn, and I’d be driving in circles for ages.

Although I didn’t want to be late getting to school, a part of me was happy at any excuse to put off my
arrival. Those analyzing gazes . . . Starting a new school at the beginning of term was challenging enough, but starting one a few weeks in? Daunting. What if everyone already had their cliques? I was already different enough because of the coma and the mark on my back. I didn’t want to be friendless on top of that.

I fiddled a CD into the player and pressed play. Nothing. I prodded the b
utton again. When still nothing happened, I slammed my palm against the eject button. Great, jammed. Now the car had eaten one of my favorite CD’s. “Just what more can you do?” I muttered.
That iPod would be great about now . . .  

I sighed and turned into a
gas station, deciding to ask for directions and finally get through the day instead of cowering, like a wimp, contemplating it. Procrastinating without music? Boring.

A woman, jiggling a screaming child in her arm, paid for her gas in front of me. As I waited, I crinkled the paper with Dad’s directions, and scanned the stacks of magazines and newspapers to my left. Fat black words glowed out from one article:
According to the latest census, Foxtin has one of the highest rates of murder per capita in the U.S . . .

Charming. So, what
was
to like here? Looking through the dusty windows, I watched an elderly man fill his car with gas.
At our little station in Portland I never had to pump my own gas.

I stepped to the side to let the exhausted mom pass, then scurried in front of an impatient lady trying to cut in queue. She huffed behind me, and I smiled broadly at the tired young man behind the counter.

“Quick question, how do I get to Oak Street from here?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know any Oak Street. There’s an Oat Street not far, though. Two blocks down, and left at the lights.”

I glanced down at Dad’s scribbled note.
That
was a
t?

I hurried back to the car, and followed the directions. The fog was so thick, I almost missed the 80’s style block buildings.  I checked my watch—the car’s clock didn’t work either. Even with the delay, I’d arrived on time. As I drove into the parking lot, very few people noticed me. I found a spot at the far end, next to a seven-foot hedge.

Before climbing out of the car, I took a minute to center myself. I angled the rearview mirror until my dark blue eyes and conceited-looking upturned nose stared back at me. “There will be a lot of times in life when you don’t know anybody. This is just one of those occasions.” I smiled, all I had to do was hold my head high, be friendly and, most importantly, be myself. I wouldn’t hold back, I’d rather eat lunch in the basement than do that. Right?

A small, blatantly honest part of me cried
liar liar, if it came down to it, you’d juggle to impress these people.

I shook my head and promised myself that at least I’d never do
that
.

Laying my shoulder bag on the roof of the car, I locked the door and looked around but, beyond a couple of parked cars, I couldn’t see much. Now it would have been good for the fog to lift slightly, so I could find the office building easier.

I stashed the keys in my bag. A light breeze wafted behind me, thinning the fog in the parking lot. I thanked my lucky stars when I saw the school map on a board, the labels for each building large enough that I didn’t have to scrutinize it and give myself away as the new girl already. I bee-lined for the office.

There was only one secretary, a plump middle aged woman with a hard jaw and stony eyes, and she was talking to a male student when I entered. I stood back from them and waited, trying to determine exactly what shade of blonde the guy’s hair was. The dark ash roots told me that it was not his natural color.

My gaze moved to a poster on the wall to my left. On it a girl was blowing a kiss, her pose emphasizing her rack. It was debatable whether she was wearing a skirt or a belt. Under the picture in glittered writing was the slogan: Vote Sara for the Tiara. Then, in smaller letters,
Twirp, November 23rd
.

Once the blonde guy left, I approached the counter. A sliding glass window separated the office from the foyer
. It was open halfway.

“What can I do for you?” Her voice sounded bored.

“Uh,” I coughed to clear my throat. “My name’s Sylva Lark. I’m new here, I—”

The secretary held up her hand to silenc
e me and opened a folder. “Lark . . .” She looked up. “You’re meant to be starting on Monday.”

“Yes, well, if it’s not a problem I’d rather start today.”

A frown distorted her features further. She looked wary, like she didn’t trust me. But now I’d made it to school, I wasn’t about to turn around and go home.

“Could I just have my schedule, please?”

When she made no motion to help me, I lowered my head closer to the pane of glass. “It’s just that the mere thought of missing one day of school makes me weak in the knees.”

She didn’t seem to discern any whi
ff of sarcasm. Instead she nodded and reached into a drawer. There was a light chuckle behind me, but I didn’t look to see who it’d come from.

The secretary handed me a schedule, but she’d be damned if she’d tell me how to get to English Lit—the first class of the day. I only hoped there was another map outside the office.

Of course there wasn’t.

I bit my bottom lip. If I hurried, I could go back to the parking lot to check the map again, but that just seemed silly. Maybe I should just suck it up and ask someone.

“Is English Lit. your first class?” The voice was low and soft, and I swiveled in its direction. Deep brown eyes and a gorgeous smile greeted me.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and some unidentifiable sound slipped out. I felt my cheeks heat up.

“If it is, I could show you the way,” he said. “That’s where I’m headed.”

I swallowed and managed a nod. He stretched his hand to the right, gesturing for me to follow, a brilliant smile on his face.

Come on Sylva, say something.
Anything
. Tell him that’d be nice. No, not nice, that’s too lame.
I opened my mental thesaurus, searching for a better synonym. “That would be sensational,” I blurted. Sensational? Oh dear God, what was I thinking?

At least there was no harm in what I said or did now. I straightened my shoulders and started walking.

“I’m Jason, by the way.”

He was looking at me while we moved. “I’m Sylva.” I blushed under the heat of his gaze.

A few steps ahead, an empty potato chip package danced along the path, eventually entangling itself in a shrub. I bent over, pulling it off a twig, and chucked it into one of the school’s bright blue bins.

“I hate littering,” I mur
mured. His smile only broadened. I wanted to think that meant he agreed, but as far as I knew he may have plastered it on to pacify the crazy chick.

We arrived just as class started, and Jason slipped his body behind a desk too small for him. Everyone was sitting facing the blackboard, the teacher’s large desk to the side of it. And because the door was in line with the desk, as I strolled into the room I was on stage, with twenty pairs of eyes looking me up and down. So much for slipping into school unnoticed. The heat in my cheeks flared again and I quickly gave the teacher a slip the secretary had told me to pass on.

The teacher, a thirty-something-year-old male, took it and rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a worn book and handing it to me with a couple of pieces of paper. As subtly as I could I scanned the room for a spot to sit and found one at the back, next to a girl wearing a tartan scarf.

The teacher stood and wrote his name up on the board, surely only for my benefit.
Mr. Patterson.
I took out a pad from my bag to write some notes and cursed myself that I hadn’t thought to bring a pen.

The girl in the tartan scarf next to me looked friendly enough. I tapped her on the elbow. “Sorry, do you have a spare pen I could borrow?” She smiled sweetly and handed me a purple pen with a bright green marble on the end of it. Once I’d figured I had to wind up the marble to work the pen, I was ready to pay attention.

“Can anyone tell me what the main themes of this play are?” Mr. Patterson looked around the room for an answer. I glanced at the title of the book and felt relieved.
The Importance of Being Earnest
was a play I’d already read.