Waking Dreams (A Soul's Mark Novella) Page 7

  With that little pep talk, he maneuvered his Corvette around the west side of the house and into a motor court with large carports on both sides and parked in the empty lot. He hastily turned off the car, jumped out, and then he ran up the stone-covered terrace steps and threw open the French doors leading to the kitchen.

  Eric needed to calm his nerves. He padded over to the cherry-wood island. I need pancakes. Pancakes made everything better. It was in that moment that he clued in that the driveway had been empty. No one was home. And if no one was home, there was no Mabel to yell at him for cooking.

  He set about the kitchen, pulling out a box of pancake mix and a frying pan. After reading the directions, and figuring even he couldn’t screw up pancakes, he turned on the stove and added some olive oil to the pan.

  Eric carefully measured the mix, added the recommended amount of water, and began to stir, but no matter what utensil he tried, it looked … lumpy. Was it supposed to look like that? He shifted through the cupboards, looking for something else that might work, and he spotted the blender. Perfect! He grabbed it, quickly dumped in the lumpy mix, and plugged the blender in. He was just about to push the button when Mabel walked in, arms loaded with groceries. She dropped them at the door, put her hands on her round hips, and gave him one of her stern grandmother looks.

  “What are you doing in my kitchen?” she asked, narrowing her eyes further.

  Eric grinned. “You weren’t here, so I thought I’d make pancakes,” he said. The oil in the frying pan began to crackle as it heated.

  “With a blender?” she asked, clearly not amused, and she started towards him. She was wearing her favorite flowery apron, and her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun, making the dirty look she was shooting him appear more severe than it really should have been.

  Eric glanced at the blender. It’s a good idea, he thought. He looked back up at her and grinned, his finger hovering over the button. She was overreacting, he was sure of it. It was just pancakes.

  “Eric, no!” she hollered, just as he pushed down, and the blender roared to life.

  Okay, maybe, just maybe, Mabel wasn’t actually overreacting. As soon as he pushed down, Eric clued in as to why she was yelling. Turns out, blenders have lids, or if they didn’t, Eric figured they should. The room exploded in a mess of yellowish pancake batter, coating Eric, and splashing onto Mabel. It dripped from the ceiling and covered the floors. It was a sticky, gooey mess, and Eric laughed.

  Well, he laughed until the first strike came. Mabel screamed, a shrill sound that ruptured through him, and then she hit him on the backside with what felt like a stick. He spun around, his foot caught on the cupboard that he had left open, and a bunch of pots and pans clattered to the floor.

  “Stop it,” he yelled, raising his arms as Mabel swung a broom at him. He jumped back, knocking a glass off the counter, and it crashed to the marble floor, shattering into pieces.

  Mabel kept coming at him, screaming unintelligible curses about ruining her kitchen. “Ouch,” Eric groaned with amusement, trying to stifle his laughter, which was on the verge of exploding. He raised his arms in an attempt to protect himself from the blows of a broom swishing furiously at him. “It was an accident!” he cried out.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angelle fly through the door, looking furious and right on her heels … He blinked, and his jaw dropped—literally. Megan. Her hair was different, brown, not red, and her eyes … blue-gray, but everything else was her. Suddenly, she darted over to the fridge and whipped it open, and then Mabel hit him again.

  “What the hell is going on?” Angelle yelled, jumping in front of Mabel. She snatched the broom and tossed it. It flew across the room, and slammed into the wall before clattering to the marble floor. “That’s enough.” She turned to Eric, grabbing him by the shoulder, and shoved him away, hard. Hard enough that his shoulder popped out of its joint and he had to bite back a growl as he snapped it back into place.

  It’s not her. It’s not her. It’s not her. She’s Mitchell’s. Amelia. But even if he knew it … dammit! How was he going to survive this? Eric watched the girl run over to the stove, and that’s when he noticed the fire. She dumped a box of something on the burning grease-lit frying pan. The fire extinguished in a billowing cloud of smoke, and she started to cough.

  “He’s ruining my kitchen. Look at this mess!” Mabel cried in a tizzy, surveying the mess.

  Eric was rubbing his shoulders, looking at Angelle, because he seriously couldn’t look at the girl any longer. “I was just trying to make pancakes for Amelia,” he said. The name felt wrong on his tongue; he thought that the little lie might smooth over the mess, and then, because he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of her, he gave the girl a bashful smile. Then he looked back over at Angelle and said, “And in case you missed it, she was hitting me. Why did you shove me like that?”

  Angelle rolled her eyes in a dramatic show of annoyance. “I’m sure you deserved it, Eric. You usually do.” She looked over at Mabel, who was now scurrying around the kitchen, trying to clean up the mess. “What did he do, Mabel?”

  “He used a blender without the lid,” Mabel said. Her voice was stern and a touch motherly. And she looked absolutely fit to be tied.

  Eric shrugged. “Stirring was taking too long.” His heart was jumping into his throat, and he could barely catch his breath. He snuck a peek at the girl, and it took everything he had not to run to her and take her in his arms.

  “You’re such a dork—and what’s with the hair?” Angelle laughed, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You look like a little punk.”

  “Don’t knock the hair,” Eric said, leaning back against the island, arms folded across his chest.

  “You can’t go to the office like that,” Angelle said.

  “Don’t have to. I’ve been promoted to personal chauffeur. And I think it looks great. I thought you would appreciate it.” He batted his eyes and struck a pose. “It totally matches my eyes.” He looked Amelia over again, and then pushed off from the counter, strolling towards her, and he felt a grin spread across his face. He dropped into a gallant bow, and a cute little giggle slipped from her lips. He took her hand in his, and kissed it lightly. “Welcome, my lady,” he said playfully.

  Angelle groaned. “You are such a moron.”

  Eric forced a laugh and dropped Amelia’s hand. If he had hoped that his skin would sizzle as it did when he had touched his Megan, he was disappointed. He strolled back over to the island, and leaned lazily, elbows propping him up.

  “This is Mabel,” Angelle said with laughter in her voice. “She’s our housekeeper, cook, and den mother.”

  “Hello, dear. How was your trip?” Mabel asked distractedly.

  “It was okay,” Amelia answered, with the same sweet tones that Megan’s voice held. As she spoke, he watched her intently, waiting, wishing she would show some sign, any sign, that she felt something, anything, being so close to him.

  “That’s good, dear. Look at this disaster.” Mabel let out a long, exasperated sigh. “At least I caught him before he burnt the house down.” She paused, scrubbing at the counters. “Why in the world were you making pancakes? It’s almost dinner time.”

  “She had a long trip,” he shrugged. “Thought she’d be hungry.” Eric was still leaning against the counter, watching the girl, scanning her over from head to toe. Her heart was racing, fluttering like a humming bird’s wings, and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

  “We just finished rebuilding the kitchen from the last time Eric tried to cook,” Angelle added.

  “Um, can I help clean up?” Amelia asked, and took a small step towards the sink, looking around.

  “That’s okay, dear,” Mabel said. “You two run along now, and I’ll clean up this mess.” Mabel made a shoo-ing gesture and shot Eric a look, not a good one.

  “That’s her nice way of saying get out of my space,” Angelle said, ushering the girl away from the mess. “Believe me, you
don’t want to stay and help. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.” Angelle snagged the girl’s hand and started pulling her through the kitchen. As they went, Angelle glanced over her shoulder at him and said, “Eric, bring Millie’s bag to her room.”

  “Make the tour quick,” Mabel said. “I don’t want you to be late for dinner. I’m making your favorite, Amelia, Fettuccini Alfredo with chicken.”

  Angelle towed her through an open doorway, out of the kitchen, and into the living room.

  The girl snuck a peek over her shoulder at Eric, catching him staring. His eyes met hers, and his heart stopped. They drew him in, and everything around him vanished. She flushed, and her beautiful heart fluttered. He had an overwhelming urge to run to her, pull her in his arms, and sink his teeth into her neck. He wanted to claim her. He wanted his name to appear on her neck. She licked her lips, and right then he knew he could, and she would let him.

  She’s not yours! his conscious hissed, breaking the spell. He blinked and gave his head a little shake. She gasped, and he forced a grin on his face. He winked at her and turned away, leaving the kitchen as fast as he could.

  Crap! Crap! Crap! The word echoed through his brain with each step he took. How the hell could this happen? What if Mitchell was wrong? Okay, Eric knew that was impossible. You can’t be wrong about the soulmate bond. It just doesn’t happen. Mitchell had been dreaming about that … that … girl for five years. But … but … his brain couldn’t finish the thought.

  Eric rushed into his bedroom, closing the door, and leaned against it. He didn’t know how he would survive this or even if he could. No matter what his brain told him, his heart was pulling him in another direction. And his stupid, reckless heart was sure that his father’s Amelia was, in fact, his Megan.

  ###

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ashley Stoyanoff lives in Whitby, Ontario and loves diving into the magical world of creating fiction. When not writing, she can be found reading sappy novels, watching cheesy chick flicks, and buying far too many clothes.

  Connect with Ashley Stoyanoff online:

  www.ashleystoyanoff.com

  www.facebook.com/AshleyStoyanoffTheSoulsMark

  www.goodreads.com/ashley_stoyanoff

  Read on for a preview of Ashley Stoyanoff’s award winning novel, The Soul’s Mark: FOUND, Book 1 of The Soul’s Mark Series.

  PROLOGUE

  Salem, Massachusetts, 1692

  Racing through the dense woodland, a heavy cloud of smoke billowed upwards, cresting above the herbaceous border and confirming his soundless fears. Still miles away, he could already smell the pungent curdling of her blood as it began to boil, and the vile stench of searing flesh. Undeniably, the firestorm was spreading, and he struggled to drive out the image of the flames reaching up her body.

  He cursed his heightened senses, wishing he could block out the ruthless chanting, “Burn the Witch!” The unyielding voices only helped his psyche run wild, and the graphic image of her tied to a post and set ablaze etched itself in his vision.

  Her fear consumed him, rupturing their bond like a sudden cloudburst, and his body threatened to surrender to the inevitable fate marked for his soul. Regardless, the chain around his heart yanked him forwards. You need to save her, he told himself over and over, battling his body’s attempts to give up and abandon the rescue. He pushed on, raw adrenaline propelling him forward. But even with the unparalleled velocity and power of a vampire, his limbs would not move fast enough.

  The smoke cloud rose mercilessly, thick and black and punctuated by the sparks of glowing embers as he broke into the clearing at Salem Commons. A mob of several hundred onlookers cheered for her execution. He watched in horror as they tossed books, chairs, and brush onto the fire that was licking up her dress.

  Their eyes met, and the look of pure hatred that contorted her face was agonizing. His knees buckled, and he plunged to the ground. He focused all of his energy on pulling her spirit to him but it was futile: no matter what he tried, she would not let him ease her pain.

  The congregation’s savage chanting became deafening. The flames licked at her cheeks, and her long, curly locks were set ablaze, melting and sparking, but she did not howl from the pain. Silently, her gray-blue eyes remained fixed on his, and flared with accusation. At that moment, he knew without a doubt that she blamed him, solely and entirely, for her cold-blooded death sentence.

  His tortured wails were scarcely heard over the fevered roars of the mob. He watched, powerless, as one of the very few things that could kill him—the blazing inferno—devoured her body and his soul, turning her into nothing more than ash.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Greyhound bus pulled into the Willowberg station with a sucking pneumatic hiss. Amelia Caldwell shuddered as the driver announced the arrival and wondered if she could just stay on the bus. She hated moving. And she really hated change. It seemed as if that was all she had ever done.

  On the ten-hour ride, she had almost convinced herself that this time would be different. This time she would make friends. She would not be the sad girl who lost her parents or the girl that no one wanted. No one would know her story; she could just start over. A clean slate. But now that the doors clicked open and she was actually here, her resolve was fading fast.

  Amelia wrapped her arms around herself and looked down at her lap, hugging tightly and trying to stop the trembles that vibrated through her. She could feel the other passengers staring at her as they retrieved their belongings and made their way off the bus. People always seemed to stare.

  She never really understood why she couldn’t just blend into the crowd. At five foot four, she wasn’t tall. With a slim figure, curly brown hair and blue-gray eyes, she felt average. Definitely not eye-catching. But there was just something about her, something she did not understand that made people notice her. It was like they just couldn’t help but stare.

  Amelia kept her head down, waiting for the other passengers to leave. It’s not fair, a voice in her head bellowed. It was supposed to be different this time, better somehow. Her eyes burned, she was shaking, and she knew she was going to cry.

  Willowberg was supposed to be her new start at life. Despite all her fears of moving, she had been so sure that she was making the right decision. It had seemed like a dream come true. A full scholarship, housing arranged and paid for, and the University of Willowberg was even providing a basic living allowance so that she wouldn’t have to work.

  Amelia sighed, scrubbing furiously at her puffy, pink eyes. Gulping down a few breaths, she wondered why she had accepted the scholarship. Especially after she found out she would be living off campus, in a house with roommates. If they didn’t like her, just as she knew they wouldn’t, she would be alone. Completely alone. There would not be dorm advisors that would have to be nice to her or other nerdy girls to study with. It would just be her and the roommates who thought she was a freak.

  You can do this, Amelia told herself sternly, swallowing the prickly lump in her throat and stretching her cheeks into a forced—and she hoped—realistic smile. She picked up her backpack and padded her way off the bus.

  Amelia had just stepped onto the platform, into the bright sun, when a clear, musical voice called her name.

  “Amelia? Amelia Caldwell?”

  She looked up to see a stunningly beautiful girl walking towards her. Nearly six feet tall, with silky auburn hair and big brown eyes, highlighted with a touch of liner and mascara. She looked a bit older, maybe twenty, Amelia guessed. And she was all legs, eyes and pouty lips: the perfect supermodel body.

  Completely dumbfounded, Amelia just stood and stared at this gorgeous girl, who was smiling at her, talking to her. She looked friendly and, though Amelia could not be sure, almost appeared as if she was genuinely happy to see her.

  “I was getting worried you didn’t catch the bus on time,” the girl said, her big childlike brown eyes wide with concern. She rushed over, throwing her arms around Amelia, crushing her in a bi
g bear hug. “I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

  Amelia dropped her bag, landing with a thud on the ground and stood stiff and rigid, not returning the embrace. Affection was foreign to her. People didn’t usually touch her, not like this. It took her a moment, but once the initial shock passed, she wiggled her way out of the girl’s arms and took a step back.

  “My, where are my manners. You must think I’m crazy!” the musical voice sang out and the girl extended her hand to Amelia. “I’m Angelle O’Connor, your new roommate.”

  With a shaky, unsure hand, Amelia accepted the shake, pumping it twice in a quick, fluid motion, cleared her throat and said, “Um... Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Oh honey, you look as scared as a deer caught in headlights. Are you okay?” Angelle asked, giving Amelia a concerned look.

  Amelia had not noticed how scared she truly was until Angelle said it. She could feel her body shaking and the all too familiar prickly feeling in her eyes warned her she was about to cry again. She sucked in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and attempted to smile, trying to conceal how much she wanted to run away and hide, and then she lied, “I’m okay. I’m just tired. It was a really long trip.”

  “Well then, let’s get you home,” Angelle said. Her big brown eyes glanced around, settling on Amelia’s backpack. Surprised, she asked, “Is this all you brought?”

  Amelia bit her lip for a scared second and a nervous knot emerged deep in her gut. She remembered the last time she had moved and the reaction from the other kids. They had teased her and called her names, treating her like a bum, an outcast. And for some reason, which she just did not understand, Amelia knew she would just die if Angelle treated her the same way. She dropped her head, shuffling her feet, because she really could not stand it if the girl looked at her the way others had. Kids could be just so… mean. Hesitantly, she nodded.