Impossibility of Tomorrow (3 page)

“Probably because people have no idea who Echo is,” he replies. “No one studies Greek mythology anymore.”

Echo smiles, looking pleased, and Madison introduces herself as well. Her lips have somehow acquired a coat of
cherry-red lipstick that looks like fresh blood against her pale complexion.

“It must be kind of a weird day to be starting here,” she says apologetically, batting her eyelashes, which are coated with several layers of black mascara. “You know, with Mr. Shaw . . .”

Reed flinches, looking down at our table. “Yeah,” he admits. “My parents are freaking out. People don’t get murdered in Sonoma. Like, ever. They were ready to pack up and leave when they watched the news this morning.”

“We definitely need some healing energy,” Echo says. “I brought some sage to burn at lunch,” she adds, patting her canvas backpack.

“And as we all know, sage fixes
everything
,” Madison says drily.

Reed ignores Madison and smiles at Echo. “It’s not a bad idea. Herbs are more powerful than people think.”

“
I
think we ought to get back to discussing real issues,” Madison sniffs. “Like the mural Kailey should be painting for the school dance.”

Damn, the girl is persistent.

The rational piece of me realizes she’s just dealing with Mr. Shaw’s death in her own way, but I’m losing patience with her. My entire life is falling apart, crumbling like an old bridge over choppy waters, and I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine.

But before I have to answer, the bell rings, and I scoop up my sketchbook and my backpack. “I guess we’ll have to continue this conversation later,” I say, darting for the door.

Cyrus is already outside. He is leaning against a wall of lockers, arms folded over his chest. Even though I know it’s Cyrus, the sight of Noah’s body brings me, as usual, a fluttery feeling. I walk toward him slowly, wanting to bask in the illusion, wanting to pretend that it’s really Noah. That last night never happened.

“Everyone’s eating outside,” he says. “Since it’s such a beautiful day.” But then he smiles—Noah’s smile—and leans close to me. Close, closer. His hands are in my hair, his hands are under my chin. And then his lips—Noah’s lips—are on mine, kissing me. I kiss him back. I am dizzy, flames licking the side of my body. His passion is real. Mine is too, but it’s misplaced. It’s almost like kissing Noah. Almost isn’t enough.

I force myself to pull away. It’s nearly impossible, but I do. I shove the fire down, inside the extinct volcano of my heart. What if Noah’s soul is nearby, watching this? Seeing his body being used as a puppet? Seeing that puppet kiss the girl he loved—the girl who got him killed? Or is Noah’s soul long gone to some other dimension, some peaceful realm far away from here, where everything is starlit and joyful
and earthly problems have lost their significance? I cannot pretend to know.

That’s the thing about Incarnates. We know everything about being alive and nothing about death—except how to cause it, over and over and over again.

FIVE

The wind has picked up, warm and dry, the kind of wind that means fire danger for California, no matter how much rain has fallen recently. In the south they call them Santa Anas—up here it’s the Diablo wind, picking up ferocity as it screams through narrow canyons to the ocean. Saint or devil, the result is the same. The whole state is tinder.

It seems like the entire student body is outside for lunch, taking advantage of the sun. The oak tree we’re standing under shakes, and small dried leaves fall around us like little dead wings. I am surrounded by Kailey’s friends—
my
friends now, though I feel a tinge of guilt for thinking of them that way.

The atmosphere is misleadingly festive as we watch a group of students play an acoustic version of “Amazing Grace” in memory of Mr. Shaw. The song is uplifting, and I love the soft jangle of banjo and violin, but I hate that they’re playing it for Cyrus.

I recognize the band members from the party in Montclair that Bryan brought me to just days after I became Kailey. The girl with blond dreadlocks isn’t playing the accordion this time—she sits with a conga drum clutched between her knees, her flowing mauve dress the same color as the fake flowers she has pinned in her hair. The boy with the violin is wearing the same crumpled cowboy hat he had on at the party, a shock of golden hair peeking out at his tanned neck. His eyes are trained on the banjo player’s fingertips as they move up and down the metal strings.

They’ve drawn quite a crowd. As I watch the violinist, I smile in spite of myself, remembering how I borrowed his instrument at the party, how I gave myself over to the music. I loved that night. A bonfire, and redwood trees creaking in the wind. Bryan helping me sneak out of the Morgans’ house. The first time I felt comfortable with Kailey’s friends. Noah, standing in the kitchen, giving me a smile that made my pulse race . . .

Stop it,
I remind myself.
Don’t think about him.
I swallow hard.

When the song ends, a low murmur of voices ripples
through the crowd, rising above the muted applause. Like in art class, Mr. Shaw’s name is on everyone’s lips.

“I just can’t believe he’s gone. It doesn’t feel real,” Leyla Clark, Kailey’s best friend, murmurs next to me.

It’s not,
I want to tell her, but I bite my lip. The boy who looks just like Noah is on my other side, his fingers firmly laced through mine.

Leyla’s dressed in purple down to her scuffed lavender high-tops. A knit cap is tugged low over her ears, and her dark, magenta-streaked hair spills out the bottom. The wind keeps blowing into her mouth, where it sticks to her grape-scented lip gloss. On the other side of her is Bryan in his letterman jacket, his sandy blond hair gelled into spiky submission and immune to the wind. She shifts, leaning into him as he puts his arm around her shoulder.

“I heard he was trying to buy drugs,” says Chantal Nixon, who is, as usual, perfectly composed and ladylike in a headband and blazer.

Leyla scoffs. “No way. He was a teacher. He just got mugged. It can happen to anyone.”

“Remind me to stay out of Oakland,” sniffs Nicole Harrison, who wanders up to the group with Madison in tow. Nicole looks uncharacteristically chaste in a black turtleneck under a cable-knit sweater. She doesn’t have on any makeup, and her red, puffy eyes suggest she’s been crying.

“Don’t be such a priss, Nicole,” Chantal retorts, which is odd coming from a girl wearing pearls. “Lake Merritt isn’t exactly the ’hood. There are worse neighborhoods in Berkeley.”

“It’s so awful that he fell into the lake after he was shot. I heard they haven’t found the body yet.” Madison’s voice is dull, her face half swallowed by giant sunglasses. Her dark hair sweeps behind her in feathered tangles, and the sun glints off the small diamond stud below her lip. Her hands shake as she fiddles with a lighter. She’s much more somber than she was in art. Her best friend, Piper Lindstrom, isn’t here and won’t be for weeks, maybe months—according to a text she sent Madison, she has mono. Without Piper to gossip with, new boys to charm, or dance business to occupy herself, I suppose Madison has no choice but to face death, just like the rest of us.

Cyrus tightens his grip on my hand. “The police are still looking?” he asks. “For the body?”

Madison nods. “They’re going to dredge the lake.”

Bryan’s brows knit together. “Seriously? Lake Merritt isn’t even ten feet deep. It’s not like the muggers pushed him off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Maybe someone moved the body,” Cyrus says. “Or maybe the detectives working the case are completely incompetent.”

Or maybe the body is nothing but dust,
I think pointedly.

“There’s going to be a candlelight vigil,” says Leyla. “We should go.”

“I’m in,” Nicole offers, pushing her shiny curtain of brown hair back from her freckled cheeks. “I heard he didn’t have any family. There might not even be a funeral.”

Cyrus catches my eye, shooting me an unreadable expression. “If only he had found Seraphina,” he murmurs.

I stiffen, a spark of rage shooting through me. He’s playing with me, gloating.

“Who?” Leyla asks.

Cyrus’s eyes glisten in a perfect replica of human emotion. “No one.”

I refuse to indulge Cyrus. I keep my mouth tightly shut as the band strikes up another song. They’re covering my favorite Beatles tune, “Blackbird,” about a bird who learns to fly, broken wings be damned. I concentrate on the music, letting it momentarily stanch my anger.

What am I going to do? I can’t run, obviously. I don’t have the advantage of being in disguise anymore, and the only way I will switch bodies again is by force. I need to think of a plan more foolproof than my Swiss army knife, but nothing comes, and Cyrus’s firm grip on my hand makes it impossible to think clearly.

The smell of sage cuts through the air, and I see Echo holding
the promised smudge stick, sweet herbal smoke greedily snatched by the wind. It reminds me of the warehouse raves Cyrus dragged me to in the 1990s, electronic music pushing baggy-pants-wearing dancers into a delirious trance. Techno was Cyrus’s passion, not mine, but I’ve always loved to dance, to forget myself in the rhythm and the crowd.

A chorus of applause erupts as the band finishes the song. I rip my hand away from Cyrus’s grasp to clap loudly, and the boy with the violin catches my eye, a sunny grin spreading across his face. His ice-blue eyes crinkle at the corners, and he tips his hat at me. I feel a blush rise in my cheeks, and I steal a glance at Cyrus. I don’t want this violinist paying any attention to me—Cyrus’s jealousy has proved deadly before.

“Nice,” says Cyrus warmly, summoning his immortal charm. He’s not mad, I realize. Why would he be? He won, after all. He’s captured me.

“Thanks.” The boy’s eyes flick between Echo and Leyla as they drift away across the quad; the music over, the crowd has begun to disperse.

“ ‘Blackbird’ is one of my favorite songs,” I say tentatively to the violinist.

“It’s a classic,” violin-boy says, his eyes bright. “It’s nice to meet another Beatles fan.”

“Oh, we met before,” I correct him. “At Dawson’s party in Montclair. I borrowed your violin.”

He cocks his head.

“Are you guys talking about the party in the hills?” The tiny girl with the blond dreadlocks sets her conga drum down on the grass and throws an arm around her bandmate’s shoulders. “Because Eli here was high as a kite that night. Seriously, he almost fell into the canyon. Don’t believe anything he says about that party.”

Eli chuckles, holding up his hands. “In that case, I plead the Fifth.” But I barely hear him.

Almost fell into the canyon.
The phrase ricochets through my mind. An idea takes hold suddenly, and I know how I’m going to kill Cyrus. Well, perhaps that’s too optimistic.

I know how I’m going to
try
.

I reach for Cyrus’s hand. I tug on it, and he gives me his full attention.

I gaze into his deep blue eyes, making my face into a contrite mask, lifting my lips in a veneer of love and obedience. “I have an idea,” I say, ignoring the nervy ball of dread that sits in my stomach. “Let’s go hiking tonight in Tilden Park. Before we go home.” The word
home
feels false in my mouth. The coven’s San Francisco condo will
never
be my home. As long as Cyrus is there, it can only be my prison. “Just you and me,” I add.

He looks at me for a long moment while my heartbeat thuds down to my toes. But he pulls me close, wrapping his
arms around me. “That would be really great,” he murmurs into my hair.

A flock of birds lands on the concrete, then takes off, one by one, dipping and swooping in the air, aloft on invisible streams. And free, like I could be if I succeed.

“Not right after school, though.” I make my voice confident, breezy. “I have a few things to take care of first.” I need it to be dark when we set out on the path. I don’t want any witnesses to what I intend to do.

I pull away and smile at him. “That’s allowed, right?”

“I suppose so,” he says, cupping my cheek with his warm hand. Behind us, Eli’s band launches into another song, a traditional ballad that reminds me of something my mother used to sing, a mournful tale of love and loss.

I turn away from Cyrus and set my lips grimly, watching Eli’s fingers dance over his violin strings. Cyrus agreed readily—perhaps
too
readily—to my plan. Perhaps he has no intention of taking me back to San Francisco, and I have just set the scene for my own murder.

I can’t think like that. I’ve been losing to Cyrus for centuries, but this has to be the one game I win.

You’re a killer, Sera.
That’s what Cyrus always says.
Now act like it.

SIX

I can’t stop staring at the girl’s hair. She sits with her back to me, headphone wires trailing from her ears, plugged into a sleek laptop. She has no idea I’m here, hunched low in the library’s poetry section, but I’ve been watching her for close to an hour, the minutes ticking by far too quickly. When I leave here, I will meet Cyrus, and I am scared. No—
terrified
.

The girl’s hair is wavy, rippling down the back of her faded green sweatshirt, and veers between auburn and scarlet and brilliant persimmon, depending on the angle of her head beneath the fluorescent lights.

From behind, she looks exactly like Charlotte, my best friend for two hundred years. But then she twists and bends to her side, pushing down her knee sock to scratch at a mosquito bite on her pale ankle. Her profile is nothing like Charlotte’s—her nose is strong, rather than pert, and she’s missing Charlotte’s light smattering of freckles.

The illusion broken, I glance at the clock that rests on a sagging shelf of reference books—4:25
P.M
.

Reluctantly, I leave the safety of the library and make my way outside. The wind shows no signs of stopping. It lifts my hair, whipping it harshly around my face. The gusts are warm and dry, but the weather reminds me of
le mistral
, a freezing wind that rages across the south of France. In 1349, right after he made me into an Incarnate, Cyrus and I fled to Les Baux-de-Provence.
Le mistral
was in full force, ripping tiles from the roofs of houses. Local legend said it brought ill spirits and bad tempers, but I loved it. I loved the way it threw my long, dark hair above me like a banner. The way it blew away memories of my childhood in foggy London, of my mother and father. Losing them was too painful to think about, but the wind scrubbed me clean.