Pawn (Nightmares Trilogy #1) (25 page)

“Ms. Andrews, a word, if you
please.”

“That’ll teach you to raise your hand
in class,” Cooper mumbled under his breath as he passed me in the
doorway. Then he shot me a big grin over his shoulder and mouthed,
“Good luck.”

I turned and walked
towards Mrs. Randolf, who was flipping
through a book on her desk. She was bent over the
pages, her frizzy blond curls bobbing as she rapidly turned one
page after another. Despite calling for me, she didn’t even
acknowledge my presence.

“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Randolf?”
I prodded impatiently after several minutes. Her proclivity for the
Socratic Method aside, I liked the teacher a lot. She took a
genuine interest in her students and was a fairly easy grader. If
she didn’t hurry up, though, I was going to be late for
practice.

“Yes. Where did you come across the
Egrgoroi, Ms. Andrews?”

Her question took me by
surprise. Mrs. Randolf was a bit eccentric, and that was the PC
term for it. Most of my classmates thought she was one nut short of
fruitcake. So, when she asked to see me, I figured she was
going
to ask me
some completely random question, like after the first day of
spring semester when she asked me to stay after class to discuss
the origin of my name. Apparently, she was a big
Bewitched
fan and
thought my parents must be too since I share a name with one of the
characters. I’d never seen someone as disappointed as Mrs. Randolf
when I explained it was a family name. The fact that she actually
wanted to talk about something we were covering in class was
definitely a shocker.

“Um, well,” I fumbled, “I guess I read
about them in our textbook?” It came out more like a question,
probably because I had no idea whether our textbook actually
mentioned the Egrgoroi.

“No, no, I don’t think you
did,” she said shaking her head. That’s when I realized the book
she was thumbing through
was
our textbook.

I started to fidget, like I’d been
caught in a lie. Well, I guess I had been. But I definitely wasn’t
going to tell my teacher I knew about the Egrgoroi because I
thought I might be one. I remained silent instead.

“Your father - he is a history
professor? Is that right?” she asked, giving me the obvious out.
Why hadn’t I thought of that?

“Yes, he is. He has been studying
Greek mythology lately. He must have been the one to tell me about
them,” I said, relieved.

Mrs. Randolf studied me with a
scrutiny that would have made my mother proud. Her intense gaze
made me fidget even more, and I had to look away. Unsurprising,
this confirmed I was lying.

Mrs. Randolf’s eyes
narrowed to slits as she searched my face, much the way my mother’s
had when I’d lied about ordering
17
Again
on demand three times in one
weekend. We’d both known I ordered the movie since she obviously
had not and we were the only two living in the house. Mom hadn’t
pressed the issue; I couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Randolf would do me
the same favor.

“I see,” Mrs. Randolf said finally.
Then she cleared her throat. “Refresh my memory. What is your
presentation topic?”

Instead of exams, Mrs.
Randolf required each of us to pick a god or goddess and do
a
 written report and oral
presentation
.

“I’m doing Aphrodite,” I reminded
her.

“Right. That’s right. Well, if you
would like to switch to the Egrgoroi, I would be in support of
that. There is so little known about them, and I think your
classmates might find it interesting. I even have some colleagues
you could talk to, if you are interested.”

The proposal was harmless on the
surface. Yet, I couldn’t help but think the offer had strings and
my teacher’s motive wasn’t genuine. Something about the way she was
trying to read me, like I was the textbook sitting on her desk,
made me squirm.

I had yet to start
researching Aphrodite, so the change of topic wouldn’t put
me
behind.
Still,
I was hesitant. Agreeing to write about the Egrgoroi felt like an
admission that I was one, which made no sense in reality. Then
again, reality and fantasy had become muddled lately.

“Sure, I would love to,” I found
myself saying. Devon would probably do all the research for me
anyway, since she already had the task on her to-do
list.

“Good,” Mrs. Randolf told me, sounding
oddly relieved. “And let me know if you want to speak with my
colleagues.”

“Sure, okay. Thanks,” I added and
started backing out of the room.

The mythology teacher was still
watching me intently, and I had to fight the desire to turn and
run. Stupid, I know. It was just that the entire conversation was
strange and unsettling. Not twenty-four hours after Kannon tells me
I might be one of these creatures, my teacher asks me to do a
report on them. There was no way that the two weren’t somehow
cosmically related.

****

During the warm-up run, I
filled Devon in on what happened with Mrs. Randolf. I felt safe
discussing the subject since all the other girls were listening to
music. The iPod Elizabeth had given me for my birthday was already
on the fritz, but luckily Devon was nice enough to run
sans music
to keep me
company. She wasn’t nearly as
weirded
out
by Mrs. Randolf’s suggestion that I
switch topics as I was, making me think I was being
paranoid.

“You brought it up in class,” she
pointed out.

“I know, but I didn’t hint that I
might be interested in researching them,” I replied.

“True,” Devon conceded. “But she said
there wasn’t much known about them and she is an academic. They
always want to know more. I bet when you asked about them in class
she saw it as the perfect opportunity to get someone else to do the
research she is too busy, or lazy, for.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. And it’s
not like I won’t be doing the research anyway, so I might as well
get credit for it, right?”

“Right.”

“Right,” I echoed.

****

Like Kannon the previous night, Mr.
Wentworth was already at the Moonlight when I arrived. His silver
Escalade was even more out of place among the Harleys than Kannon’s
Jeep had been. Once again, Mr. Haverty greeted me at the door, his
kind eyes registering no surprise at seeing me for the third time
in a week. He showed me to the same corner table where I’d sat with
Kannon the previous night. As we were leaving practice, Devon had
urged me to grill Mr. Haverty for information about my father,
since I’d neglected to do it the night before. I promised her that
I would, but figured there would be time after dinner. Besides, Mr.
Wentworth was the better source of information. He’d clearly been
in contact with my dad, and hopefully had an idea of where he
was.

“Endora, it is so good to see you,”
Mr. Wentworth told me, rising from the booth to give me a
hug.

He was a tall and imposing
man, great for intimidating the prosecution’s witnesses as he liked
to say. Inside though, he was a teddy bear. He adored his daughter,
despite the fact that she frequently showed him less respect than
her toy Yorkie, Hansel. He doted on his wife ― just as he’d doted
on each of the previous three over the years. But what I liked most
about Mr. Wentworth was that he stood by my father through the
kidnapping charges, the divorce, and the ugly custody battle. He
was one of the few of my parents’ friends that had. Apparently, he
hadn’t left Dad high and dry in the aftermath either.

I returned his embrace,
wrapping my arms around his expensive suit and breathing in the
scent of his aftershave. Jamieson’s father was nothing like mine,
but being near him made me feel
closer to
Dad. Surrounded by his strong arms as he patted my back, I felt
safe and loved. Dad had always been the hugger, Mom not so much.
Physical contact wasn’t really her cup of tea. It was a wonder I
got a chance at a first life, let alone a second one.

“Sit, sit,” Mr. Wentworth said, taking
a step back and gesturing to the booth.

I took my seat, pushing the menu aside
in the process. Having studied its contents twice, I knew it by
heart. A couple of minutes passed while Mr. Wentworth studied me
with a fatherly gaze. I was just waiting for him to tell me how
much I’d grown or what a beautiful young woman I’d become. That was
the kind of thing older people always seemed to say to teenagers in
the movies. Good thing I didn’t hold my breath, because his first
words to me had nothing to do with my appearance.

“Endora, I believe your father may be
dead.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Dead?” I repeated the word numbly.
“Dead?” The more times I said it, the less real it felt. Dad
couldn’t be dead. I’d just talked to him. And I was eighteen now.
Nothing should have been able to keep us apart. Not my mother, not
the courts. He couldn’t be dead. Mr. Wentworth was mistaken. Dad
was alive. He probably didn’t meet me the other day because he got
caught up with his newest research project. It happened all the
time. His mistress, that was the way Mom used to refer to his
research.

“I am so sorry, Endora,” Mr. Wentworth
said.

“No.” I shook my head firmly. “No,
you’re wrong. Dad isn’t…he can’t be…” I couldn’t bring myself to
use “Dad” and “dead” in the same sentence.

Mr. Haverty appeared at the
table, smiling his grandfatherly smile. I blinked up at him in a
daze. Maybe Dad had come into the Moonlight in the last
twenty-four
hours.
That would prove to Mr. Wentworth that he was wrong and that
Dad was very much alive. But before I could ask Mr. Haverty, Mr.
Wentworth asked, “Henry, could you bring us some chamomile
tea?”

Chamomile tea. The drink Mr. Wentworth
served his daughter whenever he broke bad news. The tradition
started the night the first Mrs. Wentworth passed away after losing
her battle with breast cancer. If Mr. Wentworth believed the
situation warranted chamomile tea, he really did fear Dad was no
longer among the living.

“How…how?” I asked after Mr. Haverty
left.

Mr. Wentworth said nothing
at first. He just sat there, staring at me, gray eyes filled
with
concern and regret
. I imagined it was the same way cops looked at victims’
families when they imparted bad news. Except, in this case, Mr.
Wentworth wasn’t detached from the situation. He had been my
father’s friend and, since the divorce, probably Dad’s best friend,
maybe his only friend.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Wentworth finally
said.

I blinked. “If you don’t know how
he…how it happened, then how do you know it did?”

Besides not being able to say the word
“dead” with respect to Dad, I was oddly detached from the
situation. It was almost like we were talking about a stranger’s
passing. I thought maybe I should cry or scream or bang my fists on
the table, throw a temper tantrum. I didn’t have the urge to do any
of that. Maybe Mr. Wentworth was right, I was becoming my mother’s
daughter: cold, unfeeling, too practical to cry. When Mom’s sister
died, she didn’t shed a single tear; she just asked where to send
flowers. Or at least that was the way the story went. My aunt
Samantha died before I was born.

Mr. Haverty returned with a porcelain
pot and two mugs. He set one in front of me and one in front of Mr.
Wentworth.

“Let me know when you two are ready to
order, James,” Mr. Haverty said before retreating once
again.

Mr. Wentworth poured the tea, most
likely stalling for time. I dumped too much sugar into mine, while
Mr. Wentworth chose to drink his straight.

“After the divorce,” Mr.
Wentworth finally began with the weariness of someone about to
recount a very long tale, “Your father knew
Evelyn
would stop at nothing to keep
him away from you.”

“No shit,” I muttered, then blanched.
I rarely cussed in front of adults. Whenever I let a curse slip in
my mother’s presence, she made this clucking noise with her tongue
and said, “Endora” in this nasally tone that reminded me of nails
on a chalkboard.

Mr. Wentworth laughed,
though. I supposed he was used to teenagers cussing. Jamieson
lacked a filter and believed censorship had no place in a country
where the First Amendment was freedom of speech. She routinely
expressed her views on the matter in her
Facebook status updates.

“I guess you know that,” Mr. Wentworth
continued. “What you probably don’t know is why.”

He was right; I had no idea
why Mom was hell-bent on keeping Dad and me apart. In the
beginning, the whole
kidnapping
fiasco
probably had a lot to do with it.
But it was a huge misunderstanding. True, the courts hadn’t seen it
that way. I knew the truth. Dad never meant to hurt me or take me
away from Mom permanently. The two of them could have worked out
their differences if Mom had one compromising bone in her body. Too
bad it was her way or no way.