The Seventh Sister, A Paranormal Romance Read online

  The Seventh Sister

  (Parched, book two)

  By

  Z.L Arkadie

  Copyright © 2011

  License Notes

  All rights reserved, including right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or by any means whatsoever without prior written permission from the author.

  Chapter 1 I Hate High School

  Chapter 2 Fight Night

  Chapter 3 The Wek

  Chapter 4 The Loner

  Chapter 5 The Selell

  Chapter 6 Riding the Wind

  Chapter 7 Strangers in the Fog

  Chapter 1

  I Hate High School

  Riley Simms kicks the back of my chair for the third time in the last forty-five minutes. The first two times I turned to glare at her, and she gave me this smug look, but now I’m way too bored to expend the energy that will bring her the satisfaction she seeks.

  Mr. Cleotis Lux, yes, that’s his real name, is going on about the Coriolis Effect. My eyes dart over to the clock on the wall. The long hand has barely inched forward in the past five minutes. I can hear it go tick—tick—tick at a turtle’s speed. We may be in here forever.

  “It’s when matter that moves in a systematic rotating pattern deflects off that set path,” Mr. Lux says with his back to the class, marking this pattern in blue on the white board.

  Snow lies over the land beyond the windows that run along the wall to my left. Air flowing out of the vents makes it difficult to concentrate on Mr. Lux’s boring talk on the Coriolis Effect. My eyelids can drop at any second, sending me off way past daydream land to actual dreamland.

  “Mr. Lux,” Bill Lintner, the resident class suck up, calls out with his hand raised high and fingers wiggling.

  There’s a low cohesive groan throughout the classroom. A few students throw looks at Bill Linter, who defiantly straightens his posture and focuses even more on Mr. Lux’s back.

  “Doesn’t the Coriolis Effect control the rotation of sunspots?” he asks without permission to speak. He’s clearly showing off.

  Mr. Lux’s hand stops shading a line that’s supposed to be the wind. He drops his arm to the side. My eyes focus on how the tip of the marker remains only a few micro inches away from the seam of the black trousers he’s wearing.

  He always wears black, from head to toe. The color is striking against his blue eyes and deep tan colored skin. At times he doesn’t even look real, which makes him the single object of fascination for every teenage girl, and those beyond their teen years, at Bishop High School. Even me to a certain extent. I mean, my interest is not romantic, but I do wonder why he’s the way he is. For instance, from day one he’s never looked at me, and this is not all in my head. My teacher has seriously never put his eyes on me. He doesn’t talk much to anyone either, despite Bill Lintner’s efforts to get him to elaborate more on the assignments after each and every class. Once I swear I heard him say, do not do it, in my head. I was sitting in this exact seat trying not to listen to Riley Simms go on about how Derek Firth confirmed she’s the hottest girl in the school.

  “Hotter than her?” Riley’s little side kick Morgan Slater asked.

  “You’re hotter than that toad,” Riley laughed. And I could feel their eyes on my back. I think I wanted to shove my palm smack dead in the middle of her mouth. I actually considered the fall out. What could happen to me anyway? I’d get expelled again? News flash—I don’t care!

  “So are you two going out now?” Morgan asked, but Riley didn’t answer right away.

  “You know, I don’t know what’s wrong with the boys in this school. They all have bad taste. I mean she’s so ugly to me. Isn’t she?” Riley asked totally off the subject at hand.

  “Who are you talking about?” Morgan asked.

  “Who do you think? She’s right there.”

  I knew she shoved a finger towards my back. In that moment I made a choice to do it, put myself out of my misery, however mediocre it was—and that’s when I heard Mr. Lux’s voice in my head, scolding me to do not do it.

  The man is just weird—but not in a gross way, in a fascinating way. Like right now he’s still just standing there with his back to us. Maybe this time he’ll answer Bill’s question. I do notice that eventually he always gets to whatever Bill spouts off about at some later point in the lecture. Currently everyone is extra quiet. The suspense is killing us all—will he or won’t he acknowledge Bill? This is the most exciting moment since the bell rang and we opened our books to page thirty-two.

  As we sit on the edge of our seats, I feel another shove against the back of my chair, and this time the impact is hard enough to send me flying forward; I smack right dead into Carrie Hughes, who cries out loud trying to reach around and grab her back at the site of impact. I know it hurts badly. My body is like a missile launched out of a rocket slamming right into her. So now Carrie’s sobbing like a three-year old, and rightfully so, and all eyes are on me.

  I turn extra hot under the two sweaters and a tee-shirt that I’m wearing. A red haze tints the picture of Mr. Lux who’s finally turned around and is staring right into my eyes.

  Zillael, remain calm, I’m sure I can hear him say this time because the words match the expression on his face.

  “Oops, sorry,” Riley giggles.

  I’m still clutching the sides of the desk. My fingers dig into the hard, dried up gum stuck underneath the tabletop. Do not hurt her, he says in my head again. Because I’m so bewildered by this, the red haze disappears. The anger subsides. Carrie is escorted to the nurse’s office. Curiosity looms. The bell buzzes.

  At first, nobody moves. Eyes are still on me and Mr. Lux, staring at each other until he looks away to say, “Finish chapter three tonight.”

  I rush out the door, happy this is the final class period of the day. I never linger when it’s time to go home. The campus gives me the heebie-jeebies. This is my final year here. One day I won’t have to walk the gray- and tan-flaked laminate floors that are never quite clean enough. I won’t have to see another tin locker or be forced to read all those posted flyers urging students to be in this club or attend that event. I’m in no club. I attend zero events.

  I’m almost out the door and into the bitter cold when I hear, “Miss Decker.”

  I take a deep, exasperated sigh. “What?” I answer impatiently because I already know who it is.

  I turn around to see Mrs. Lowenstein, the guidance counselor, shuffling towards me in her little tight black patent leather heels. How many times I’ve heard the sound of her tiny little feet moving towards me, and each time all I want to do is run in the opposite direction. She moves so fast and now her little dainty face is only a couple of feet away from mine.

  “We’ll be seeing you tonight and on time.” She’s actually asking, but it doesn’t sound that way.

  “Who’s we?” I say, short on patience. It must be a gift to come off sounding patronizing each and every time she opens her mouth to speak.

  She just looks at me with a tight-lipped smile, her way of saying, “I’m not stooping to your level, Miss Decker.” I think she calls me that because she can’t say Zillael without flubbing it.

  I twist my wrist to check the time on the face of my watch. “Well, it doesn’t matter because I can’t go tonight.” I nod while saying, “Family plans.”

  She doesn’t even begin to wipe away that annoying grin of hers. “Okay, well then, I’ll call your mother and explain how we, you and I, agreed to have you setup and work the Sadie Hawkins Dance in exchange for missing three days of homeroom last week.”

  “Yeah, about that. How about we find another punishment? Maybe something th
at makes more sense? I can stay after school and bang erasers or something.”

  That smile of hers gets even more smug, which I didn’t think was possible.

  “You’re definitely a charming one, Miss Decker. You should use your powers for good,” she says too delightfully. It’s even more annoying than the tight-lipped grin.

  “As opposed to what?” I ask her. Can’t help it; even, I know I’m a sarcastic smart aleck.

  In response Mrs. Lowenstein spins around on her heels. “Seven-thirty,” she says as she walks in the opposite direction, cooler than the snowy day and unruffled by me.

  I’m watching her go with my mouth stuck open. There are words caught in my throat. That’s when I see everyone in close proximity observing me. They must’ve heard everything. Only in a one-horse town like this would someone care to listen to a guidance counselor force a student to attend a stupid dance. I snarl at the faces that are staring at me, shake my head at them and shuffle out into the cold.

  I live ten miles away from the school, but I walk to and from here, even on days where the snow is over three feet deep. I like walking because I’ve always been able to do it way faster than the average person. I can run really fast too.

  In the sixth grade, we were required to run the mile, and I ran it without restraint. It took me two minutes to get it done, which shocked the dickens out of the gym teacher, who called Deanna, my mother, into the principal’s office for a meeting. I remember sitting in a big, scarlet red squishy leather chair, keeping my eyes on my hands, which were folded in my lap while Deanna argued that running too fast isn’t grounds for a meeting with the principal.

  Needless to say, Deanna pulled me out of that school the same day, enrolled me in my first private school, warned me to make sure I’m always second to cross the finish line and that was it.

  That’s what I do for the first five miles on my walk home—make sure I keep pace with the fastest person walking in the recently released pack of students. However, finding that person is hard to do today because of a peculiar fog, which wasn’t here before Mrs. Lowenstein stopped me, has just touched down outside.

  The vapor is smothering, and I can hardly see a few feet all around me. Those students who are rolling out of the parking lot in their four wheelers, jeeps and tinier cars with chains on the tires, are moving so slow they might as well park and walk with me.

  Then I hear a, “Hey,” and turn to my left. There’s the one and only Derek Firth walking beside me.

  I don’t say anything to him. Instead, I pick up speed, intending on leaving him in my dust. No one can keep up with my foot speed, not even him, and he’s captain of the hockey team, basketball team and just this year, as I heard from Riley during one of her many conversations with Morgan that take place behind me in physics, he’s joined the football team.

  When I’ve progressed out of his sight, he shouts, “What’s your problem with me anyway, Zillael?” I stop in my tracks.

  I am always running away from him. I think it’s because like all the other guys in the school, he stares at me all the time. I’m not delusional; I know what I look like. I get Riley’s problem with me. Even I’m intimidated by the chick who stares back at me in the mirror. She and I have nothing in common. The long black hair, almost yellow eyes and delicate golden skin, that’s not who I am on the inside.

  I stop because today his little girlfriend kicked the back of my chair one too many times and that’s what we need to discuss.

  “Listen.” I turn to face him, but I can barely see him through the vapor. When I sped up my feet carried me pretty far. However, after a few steps towards each other, we’re soon standing face to face. “Listen,” I say again, assuming he didn’t hear me the first time.

  “I heard you the first time,” he says.

  So he did.

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I just need you to tell your little girlfriend to back off, or she’s going to get herself hurt pretty bad.”

  He sniffs a chuckle. “What girlfriend?”

  “Oh don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend, Zillael.”

  We’re standing here staring at each other. My eyes are narrowed at him. A group of girls pass and give me the evil eye. It seems like every single chick in the school looks out for Riley, which baffles me because she’s such a nasty little self-centered witch. How could she have allies? What’s even worse—even though I want to punch her out, there’s something deep inside of me that empathizes with her. I can actually explain how society made her this poor fractured girl who thinks beauty is so valuable she has to conquer and dominate to make herself feel worthy. But today, she almost got herself killed—yes, killed, and that bothers me.

  “Okay, well whatever Riley thinks she is to you, she’s taking it out on me because she knows you like me.”

  He chuckles at that. “Who said that I like you?”

  I take a step forward to get more up in his face. “Listen, I have no time for games. You know you like me. But here’s the deal—I don’t like you,” I say with a nonchalant shrug.

  Now he laughs even harder and I frown at him, strangely irritated by this response.

  “You know what I noticed about you?” he asks.

  “See now that’s what I mean—why are you noticing things about me?”

  He sighs. “Because you’re interesting, Zillael, or can I call you Zill?”

  I grunt. “Is Zill my name?”

  “No.”

  “Then there goes your answer.”

  He points at me real quick to say, “That’s what I mean. You’ve taken the word bitch, and I’m not calling you that, but you’ve taken that noun to a whole other level.”

  I’m staring at him confused. It’s almost like I’m having a conversation with Mrs. Lowenstein and she’s managed to call me a bitch without actually calling me a bitch even through one of her irritating tight-lipped grins. I’m not buying his reasoning.

  “You just called me a bitch,” I staunchly conclude.

  “But that’s not a bad thing. See, what I meant was you’re an unapologetic hard ass.”

  I throw a hand up. “Okay—stop while you’re ahead,” I say and walk off.

  I glance at him with a frown because he’s easily keeping up with me. “Come on, you know how you are. All I’m saying is I like it.”

  I pick up the pace and he still keeps up. “What do you want from me, Firth?” My tone is harsh.

  “I heard you have to go to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and I was wondering if you asked anyone.”

  I come to an abrupt stop and grab him by the collar of his dark grey pea coat. His eyes are dark green—strange. “What are you and your little girlfriend trying to pull? A Carrie?”

  “Carrie who?” He looks confused.

  “You know the movie Carrie? Because I’m telling you, I’ll hurt both of you.”

  “I told you, Riley’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Then why does everyone think she is?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because she kissed me in the cafeteria once.”

  I shake my head at him. That is the most asinine reason I ever heard someone conjure. “See what I mean? You’re lying to me.” I take off walking again.

  “No, I’m not,” he says in his own defense.

  “Listen, I don’t have a date. Don’t want a date.” I increase my pace even more, but he still manages to keep up.

  “So you’re going alone.”

  “Didn’t the gossipers tell you that I’m being punished? I’m working off my time.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll work off time with you.”

  I shake my head. “Leave me alone, kid,” I say in my attempt to make a clear distinction in maturity between him and me. Although I’m in high school, and man I hate high school, because I’m taller than just about everyone, more filled out in the body and I look like I’m twenty-one for sure. Physically, I’ve outgrown this place and the schoolwork is monotonous.
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  “You’re calling me a kid?” He’s grinning at me and is pretty amused by me at the moment, but I don’t care.

  “Yes, now go away!”

  That’s when he stops and I keep walking. “See you tonight,” I hear him shout in the distance.

  I shake my head and continue making my way home through the fog. It’s thick but not panic worthy. This is Moonridge, Maine, a tiny port town along the Atlantic coastline. We’re used to fog this time of year. Although it’s afternoon, the mist normally rolls in early in the morning or at night and never this dense.

  I know I’m passing The Tackle Barn fish bait shop, Krispy’s Café and the only McDonald’s in town. I enter our shallow downtown, where the structures are barely visible from the sidewalk. Right now, I know I’m passing the mayor’s symbols of progress, which are two glass buildings designed by Rodale Washington. The only reason I can remember what this guy’s name is that for about a year prior to the grandiose ground breaking ceremony, posters were plastered on every light post and in every shop window in town. Not only that, but there was this cheesy billboard featuring the architect, smiling like the guy who just sold you muddy swampland for a few million bucks, erected at the site of construction. Rodale Washington—Architect of the Century—Building Moonridge into the 21st Century, the poster read. I thought it sounded awkward; I mean it said Century twice. Maybe it should’ve said Architect of the Decade.

  What’s really funny is my mom, Deanna Decker, couldn’t recall seeing even one of those posters or the humongous billboard, ever. She only took notice this spring after seeing the actual buildings established while driving up Main Street in that red, convertible Corvette of hers after returning from an extended business trip to California, then to New York, then back west to Denver, to Seattle and then finally here. The place, as far as I’m concerned, she hasn’t suffered in long enough to call home.

  Yet even with the glass towers, which look completely forced into existence, the town’s true pride and joy and lucrative tourist traps are the quaint cottage-styled shops that make up the Main Street Towne Square that’s built next to the towers.