Heart (45 page)

What the hell?

“What the hell, Reagan?” Haley practically
screamed at me as soon as she was through the doorway. She slammed
the door behind her and braced her body against it; meanwhile, I
was still doggy style in a pile of glass I was too afraid to stand
up from.

The damage was going to be annoyingly
excessive.

Before I could answer her though, I heard the
signature click of a bullet being loaded into the chamber. More
dread slithered through my body; other humans were just as deadly
and dangerous as Zombies these days. And apparently we were
trespassing.

“Don’t move,” a deep, masculine voice ordered
in a quiet, steely tone.

“Out of the frying pan,” Haley mumbled
resignedly.

“And into the fire,” I finished for her.

I would never complain about eyeliner
again.

Please enjoy an excerpt from A Matter of Fate
by Heather Lyons

A Matter of Fate by
Heather Lyons

chapter 1

I am a chronic daydreamer.

Not so much because school bores me—in fact,
a number of my classes are pretty interesting. No, I tend to
daydream about escape routes. Places to run to when the inevitable,
predetermined outcomes of my rigid life leave me no other choice.
If it’s possible, even in the tiniest way, just how would I break
away from what Fate and family has set before me?

Florence is currently my favorite spot to
imagine disappearing in. It’s a city of impossible beauty and
history, one I’ve longed to explore. Maybe I’d become an artist
there— not that I’m artistic by any means, but maybe I’d be
inspired to be something new. Different.

There’s also the
possibility of New England. My parents took me there once when I
was little, the only time I’ve ever been outside of California. My
father went for work, and while he was busy, my mother drove me to
a number of little towns running up and down the coastline. One
particular small city in New Hampshire is rooted in my memory,
where flowers practically raced in bursts of color straight to the
ocean’s edge. It was incredibly charming, the perfect sort of place
to go and be someone—anyone
,
really—who isn’t me
.

Are you kidding?
snorts a little voice in the back of my
mind.
C’mon, why pick these places, when
there is a much better place for you, and you know it?

Inwardly, I groan at the thought. My
conscience has always been far too opinionated.

I move on, wondering what sheer anonymity
would be like—to simply be a girl in a nondescript place, serving
pancakes and mugs of coffee to weary travelers on long journeys.
The land would be flat and golden as far as the eye could see, and
driving through it, with the windows down, I’d be able to smell
sweet grass in warm air.

And there’s the far north, where the
Northern Lights illuminate the sky. I’d be speechless upon seeing
them for the first time, standing in snow while gazing upon ribbons
of color streaking across the stars. I wouldn’t have to be anyone
there, either. I’d be just another person, in another small town,
making my own choices.

I don’t bother looking up when the classroom
door creaks open, because I’m still imagining those Northern
Lights, still wondering how liberating it’d be to feel so small and
insignificant for once. For as long as I want.

A voice breaks through, though. One
impossible to ignore. “Excuse me,” it says, “I’m new to the
class.”

My entire body freezes, all except my heart,
which goes berserk. Because I know this voice, and this can’t be
real.

He’s
not real.

The ground under me shifts. It’s like an
earthquake—not the rolling kind, but the jarring sort that comes
out of nowhere, hits you hard, and then disappears just as quickly.
The kind that leaves you stunned and wondering if it happened at
all, it moved so fast. All I can do is reach out and grip the edges
of my desk and pray I don’t fall out of my seat.

Because it’s not an earthquake. It’s a
shift, and I’m the only one in the room who can feel it. A quick
glance once the ground settles confirms this. Everyone is working,
talking quietly to one another, or watching the front of the room.
There are no signs from anyone that anything had just happened.

But something did.

And he’s standing in front of the classroom
next to Mr. Snook.

I blink a few times as I
stare at him, trying to determine if I’m actually awake. Every time
I open my eyes, though, he’s still here. Oh my gods. He’s
here
.

The guy I’m staring at is tall, athletic,
and quite tan, with blackish hair and eyes so clear, so blue, they
replicate a cloudless sky. I should know—I’ve stared into them
often enough.

A shy smile creeps across his gorgeous face,
creating a dimple in his left cheek as he hands Snook a piece of
paper. A textbook is passed over and he’s pointed off towards an
empty seat. The class explodes in whispers when he sits down;
everyone blatantly stares at him. It’s obvious he hears it all,
because a faint pink stain tinges his cheeks. His longish hair
shields part of his face, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve all seen
enough of him to continue ogling.

From behind me comes, “Hot. So hot!” Several
girls nearby giggle in agreement.

“Math, people.” Snook taps the board in
irritation. “Gossip on your own time.” The reprimand quiets the
majority of the class, but the girls behind me text furiously back
and forth, their fingers flying across keyboards.

It’s hard, but I tear my eyes away from the
boy, shocked. I stare blankly at my book, unsure what to do.

How many times had I imagined this scenario
before? Too many to keep track of, that’s for sure. How can this be
real?

Snook’s voice resumes its
familiar drone at the front of the classroom, but in the confusion
of what’s happened, I’m unable to put meaning to any of his words.
They blur together in low sounds, like the teachers in
Peanuts
cartoons. I
ought to pay attention, what with a test coming up, but I
can’t.

Not with
him
here.

When I look over at the new boy again, the
ground shifts for a second time. He’s working on some equation
Snook put on the board, one I haven’t attempted, thanks to being
shell-shocked and all. But then he reaches out and grabs the sides
of his desk, like he’s steadying himself. Like he somehow feels the
shift, too. Black hair spills down across his eyes as he takes a
deep breath, hiding everything but a small, knowing smile.

He’s
sitting by the windows, doing math—in my classroom! He’s no
daydream, no figment of my imagination—although for many years he’d
been exactly that.

I realize I’m staring when his blue eyes
lift to meet my green ones. A jolt of electricity zaps through my
body, all tingly, with promises of familiarity and excitement
rolled into one. We stare intently at one another for a good
fifteen seconds until a girl next to me asks to borrow a pencil. My
eyes jerk back towards my desk and I mumble an incoherent apology.
It’s just long enough of a reprieve for me to begin
hyperventilating.

Get a grip on
yourself!
the little voice barks.
You’re going to pass out!

The pencil in my hand snaps, driving a
splinter deep into my palm.

“Chloe?” Oops. Snook is talking to me. When
I merely stare back, he tries, “Your answer, Miss Lilywhite?”

Unable to do anything else, as I have no
idea what problem we’re even on, I surge, stretching my mind out to
someone nearby to find the answer. I land on some guy who’s in the
thralls of remembering a hot and heavy make-out session with his
girlfriend rather than focusing on math, so I’m forced to flip
through a number of graphic images before finding what I need.

I
hate
cheating, hate using anything
other than my intelligence for schoolwork. This explains why I’m
sitting in basic math, rather than AP Calculus like the
Cousins.

The moment I find the
answer, I pull myself out of the guy’s mind, feeling dirty just
having his thoughts mingling with mine.
Eww.
“It’s X = 2y + 79z.”

Snook moves on to the next problem and
victim, as if there’d never been any pause at all.

Ugh! I’d gone nine months without cheating,
something I was exceedingly proud of. The Cousins heckle me
mercilessly about it, saying it’s stupid to not use my gifts while
in class. But I’ve held steadfast in my belief that school is a
place for intelligence, not Magic.

Also, my hand is throbbing. Picking doesn’t
help—the splinter is driven even deeper by my efforts. And now I’m
bleeding. Great.

When the class bell rings,
most everyone packs up quickly so they can get to lunch, but the
girls behind me are back to discussing
him
, clearly infatuated with his
looks.

As for me, I’m still dazed with disbelief
before realizing I should pack up, too. The pause is just long
enough to notice Snook motion the new guy up for a quick
conference. He walks to the podium with smooth, graceful motions
that exude confidence.

I can’t hear what Snook is asking, and this
only exacerbates my curiosity. I try listening as long as possible
until it’s grossly apparent I’m sticking around out of nosiness. At
least I’m not alone. All the girls behind me are doing the
same.

I force myself to go to the door, but before
I can walk through it, the urge to look back at him is
irresistible. Despite Snook still talking, he looks directly at me.
That dimpled smile I’ve always adored crosses his face, and I go
lightheaded. When our eyes connect, a flood of memories rush
through my mind, vivid as they were on the nights they were
created.

He raises a hand and rakes it through his
dark hair. A silver ring glints on his right thumb.

Not silver,
reminds the little voice.
Titanium.

I used to love playing with that ring,
twisting it round and round on my thumb. There was an engraving on
the inside, but in the haziness that often comes with memories, I
can’t remember the words. Completely freaked out now, I hurl myself
into the hallway, smack into Cora.

“Hey!” She grabs my arm to steady me.
“What’s the rush?”

I can’t help but look over. He’s regarding
me with an oddly frustrated expression. Blushing, I shove my Cousin
out of the door’s line of sight. “I’m just glad math is over.”

Before she calls me out on my obvious lie, I
stick my hand out. When she gently touches my hand, the splinter
slides out along with the pain.

She eyes me critically. “Those shifts last
period. You have anything to do with them? I’m thinking yes, as
you’re the only big fish in this small pond.”

I nearly stagger, forcing her to detour us
toward the nearest set of lockers. Concerned, she surges into my
mind, flipping through the last period’s events. She finds the
shifts easily, but doesn’t recognize the reason behind them. A
squeeze to my shoulder indicates a need for better info, so I
reluctantly push forward a memory a little over a year old to the
forefront of my mind. Cora watches it silently, her fingers
twisting her magenta-dyed hair. When she signals for more, I
tentatively release a couple of incomplete memories from various
time periods over the last decade.

“Did you see him? In my classroom?” I
whisper, pressing myself up against a locker. My long hair feels
sticky against my neck. “Was he real? I’ve gone insane, haven’t
I?”

“Yeah, I saw him. He was definitely hard to
miss.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m so freaked out
she puts her hand on my shoulder to calm me down. Thank goodness
Cora is such a talented Shaman. Her Magical healing abilities have
always been able to soothe me like no pill ever could. She’s also
the closest thing I have to a sister, despite the fact we’re only
loosely related at best and refer to one another as Cousins.

“Tell me everything,” she demands. Cora’s
like that. She’s always demanding one thing or another. “Start with
why this is the first I’ve ever heard of this dude.”

I’m not ready yet to share the true
beginning. No, those memories are mine. So I began where I can—with
the impossibility of the situation. “He’s real!”

She gets the look on her
face that means she’s trying not to shake me. “Okay, but just
exactly who
is
he?” When I don’t answer, she presses, “Let’s try something
simpler. What’s his name?”

I say it out loud, for the first time, in a
really long time. “Jonah.”

Jonah is here.

“Alright,” she says, shooting the guy whose
locker I’m pressed up against a dirty look and an order to get
moving. “Where’s he from?”

I want to laugh at the
absurdity of her question. Where’s he
from
? I can just imagine her
response if I told her the truth.

“Chloe, how can I help you
if you don’t actually tell me anything? So far, all I know is that
some guy in your math class triggered two shifts
and
caused you to go
into shock. I don’t recognize him, and you’re making things
considerably more confusing by repeating things like, ‘Is he real?
Did you see him?’ after very clearly showing me memories you have
of the two of you together.”

“He’s not real,” I whisper.

She looks at me like I’m insane.