Eternal Echoes, Emblem of Eternity Trilogy Book 2 (2 page)

I looked at him with soft eyes. Emil loved me, and I loved him with all my heart. I smiled, brushing grass off my dress as I stood. “Well then, I will take advantage of your good mood, and ask you another favor. I should also like you to teach me how to defend myself with my hands.”

He stared at me, suspicion in his gaze. “Are you planning a crime spree?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I must ask why a Duchess would find herself in need of learning such a skill. You have servants—and me—to keep you safe.”

I set my lips in a firm line, my stubbornness apparent.

He raised a hand in the air to stop my protest. “I’m not saying no, my love. I’m simply curious.”

I took a deep breath. “I am not fond of being defenseless, Emil. I think every woman should learn. Perhaps one day I’ll need to take advantage of the skills. And if so, I should like to be prepared.”

I came out of the flashback just in time to have my legs kicked out from under me. I fell to the ground, immediately rolling out of my opponent’s grasp and onto my knees. He started to circle me as I stood up, bent over slightly with my arms out in front of me in a defensive position. I watched him closely, trying to anticipate his next move.

It would have been nice if my mind hadn’t decided to take a little break in the middle of the fight. I was surprised to be standing at all.

I jumped as he ran at me, kicking my leg out and spinning. But I kicked too soon and the defensive maneuver put me off-balance enough that I wasn’t able to brace for his return kick. He hit my shin hard. I’d definitely have a bruise by tomorrow morning. Lately, I was going through Icy Hot like it was caramel flavored coffee.

I fell to the black mat pulling in deep breaths as I tried to recover. I gave a slight shake of my head and rubbed my leg. I just got my butt handed to me by a flashback and a ninety-pound thirteen-year old. And I had a psych test in the morning. Fantastic. I couldn’t wait to find out what the rest of the night would hold.

Pieces of chestnut colored hair fell out of my ponytail in messy, sweat soaked waves. I looked through the strands, my eyes downcast. “You okay?” Derrick, my instructor, asked. I saw his bare feet padding over to me. I rolled up, sitting back on my legs. I took in the rest of the class. Most were still working on drills with their partners, but a few had stopped to rubberneck at my crash to the floor. Ha ha. The college girl was taken down by a kid in junior high. He wouldn’t have been nearly as successful if it wasn’t for that flashback.

“Yeah, are you okay?” asked a worried voice hovering on the edge of puberty.

I pushed up onto the balls of my feet and stood slowly, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.”

Derrick’s concern was evident by the tightening of his black belt and his lips pulled into a line. My sparring partner, Jessie, looked like he’d roundhouse kicked his mom.

“I was just distracted,” I said, smoothing my jacket. It had been twisted during the exercise.

“You sure?” Jessie asked with wide eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ms. Starling.”

Ms.?
What the…? I wasn’t old enough to be a Ms.! And we’d been in this class together for a few months now, he knew my name. “You know you can call me Evie, Jessie. And don’t worry about it. I’m not hurt.”

Derrick looked me up and down, assessing me for injuries through my clothes. Unless he had superpowers I didn’t know about, I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get any information I hadn’t already told him. Then I frowned and wrapped my arms over my chest, thinking about the people in my life who really did have superpowers. Four months ago, I’d scoffed at their paranormal revelations. That had been a mistake. Yes, I thought, nodding my head slightly and slitting my eyes. It was best to err on the side of caution when it came to possible X-ray vision.

Derrick decided I was fine and turned back to the rest of the class, clapping his hands. “Great job, everyone! Next week, we’ll work on disarming an attacker.” I gathered my things, stuffing them in my dark purple workout bag. I pulled my heavy, black North Face coat off the rack built into the karate studio wall, and zipped it tightly. I looked up as I grabbed my keys from the pocket of my bag. Jessie gave me an apologetic smile, waving as he walked out the door. I waved back and followed him.

When I was young, I wanted to be a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Donatello was my favorite. I took one look at his purple bandana and affection for pizza, and fell in love. He became my idol, and for a brief period of time, I forgot about my hatred for rats—and sewers.

During this phase, I decided I needed to know ninja moves if I was going to be Donatello’s sidekick—which, at eight-years-old, sounded like a pretty awesome life-plan. After my parents found me trying to attack a tree with my grandma’s cane that I’d used as a makeshift bo staff, they realized this wasn’t a passing fancy, and I needed someone with experience to direct my ninja training. I interpreted their compliance as an affirmation that Ninja Turtles were real, living in sewers defending us all, and I could be one. They saw it as a way to protect their foliage.

In high school, I’d taken a self-defense class, but I didn’t remember much from my eight-year-old ninja adventures. Then, three months ago, after being attacked by a Daevos Resistance Clan that was more evil than any cartoon villain I could remember, I’d decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to brush up on my ninja skills. Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of martial arts classes in Gunnison, Colorado. My childhood ninja obsession had only lasted a few months, so the only class available with people of similar skill level to mine included a bunch of ten to sixteen-year olds. I had a secret assumption that they, too, had been lured by Ninja Turtle magic.

I had signed up for the class as a precaution. Though there hadn’t been a Daevos threat since I helped Alex and Emil take the souls of Caleb’s Clan almost four months ago, there were still too many questions up in the air. I now knew I was a Tracker and had some pretty cool powers of my own, but I wasn’t going to count on mystical powers I didn’t understand and couldn’t really control to keep me alive. Being prepared was important. Last time, I’d put all my faith in Alex and Emil being able to protect me. I was abducted instead. I learned my lesson. Next time, I wouldn’t trust that someone would always be there to save me. I’d save myself.

The snow crunched loudly under my feet as I walked to my dark purple, 1966 GT Mustang. The breeze was sweet with the crisp freshness of pine trees and unpolluted mountain air. January in the Colorado mountains is beautiful, but very cold. I shivered as I got in my Mustang—which wasn’t much warmer than the air outside.

Classic cars aren’t known for their ability to start—and continue running—in cold weather. I didn’t want the car to die at the first stop sign I came to, so I sat for a few minutes, letting it warm up, and thinking of the flashback I’d had. So, the Cassandra incarnation of me was a duchess. A fencing, fighting duchess. I’d read enough historic romance novels to know that would have caused quite a scandal. Ladies didn’t fence, and they certainly didn’t fight. I would have been completely ostracized by society if anyone had found out. Emil must have helped me keep the secret, which meant he’d embraced my independent side even then. I wondered if Alex had known about Emil and Cassandra’s training sessions. Somehow I doubted it. He would have been eighty shades of angry if he had.

Alex Night is my Amaranthine Society soul Protector. Emil Stone is masquerading as the Daevos Resistance Clan member hunting my soul, but really, he’s protecting me, too. I chose between them two hundred and fifty years ago in another life that I only remember in fragmented flashbacks, and it’s only a matter of time before I’ll have to choose again. My life is complicated.

This wasn’t the first time I’d had a flashback to a previous life, and it wouldn’t be the last. Lately, they were becoming more frequent—a fact I hadn’t shared with anyone. I knew Alex and Emil would probably be upset about that, but in this strange world of Alex and Emil knowing everything about me and my past and me being almost completely in the dark, the flashbacks were my own. They were memories. My memories from another life. And they were private.

However, it would be nice if the memories came with some warning. It would also be nice if I could regulate them somehow. So far, the flashbacks were sporadic and I couldn’t trigger specific memories. Tonight was a perfect example of how I also couldn’t control when the flashbacks decided to pop in. I flipped the car heater on, testing the temperature—it was finally warm—and wondered if there was any way to fix my flashback Tourette’s.

I revved the engine once to regulate the carburetor. It immediately stopped its high-pitched screaming. The noise settled down into the deep Detroit rumble I was accustomed to, letting me know the car was warm enough to move. I switched the heater to defrost, then shifted into gear and drove down the slippery streets to my house.

As I turned onto a side street about three blocks from home, I hit a patch of ice. Before I could do anything to stop it, I was sliding. The rear of the car angled right, the weight of the heavy classic pushing the momentum. I yanked the steering wheel to the right to turn into the skid. The maneuver kept the car from doing a full three-sixty, but I only had so much road to work with. I couldn’t correct it before I came to a jerking stop in a five-foot tall snow bank. They’re like Gunnison’s version of bowling alley gutter bumpers. The banks keep cars from spinning into houses. I leaned forward to look at the large maple tree, heavy with snow, hanging over my car. The tree had also been protected by the snow bank bumper and didn’t look like it wanted to fall on me.

I pried my white-knuckled fingers off the steering wheel while I took stock of the situation. There weren’t any cars parked on the street—most people in Gunnison know better. I hadn’t hit anything except the snow bank, and congratulated myself for it. I stretched my neck from side-to-side. I’d be stiff tomorrow, more from being so tense when I hit the bank than anything else. I took a deep breath and pulled my gloves from my pocket so I could get out and assess the damage.

Since Gunnison is a mountain town, the city has to be vigilant about keeping the roads clear of snow and ice. The problem was that it had snowed yesterday. While the streets were relatively clear, the sun had melted what was left on the road during the day. When the temperatures dropped after sunset, the melted snow turned to ice. Most of it was easy to see, but occasionally, there would be a patch of black ice, which is what I’d just driven into.

There had been a fight about me driving my Mustang in the winter. Alex seemed to think he couldn’t protect me very well if I was dead. He argued that driving my Mustang in the snow would make death inevitable. He’s an overreactor who only thinks in worst-case scenarios. Considering Alex’s disdain for my car in general, I knew the fight was coming and had promised myself I wouldn’t resort to name-calling. It had started out innocently enough, but quickly moved to what I now refer to as the hard-head zone—something Alex and I both have, but mine seems to be aggravated by Alex, and vice versa.

Alex said he had plenty of nicely equipped four-wheel drive vehicles I could use. I said if I wanted to drive a car with no personality, I would have bought one like his in the first place. He said that unlike my Mustang, his cars wouldn’t kill me. I said at least mine was made of metal instead of plastic. He glared. I glared. We both stomped off. The fact that I’d spun out tonight wouldn’t help my case, so I hoped he wasn’t watching me with his magic ring. I wasn’t up for an argument.

I slipped on my gloves and opened the car door. Hopefully, I’d be able to get out of the snow bank. Rear-wheel drive is bad enough, but attempting to use rear-wheel drive in reverse is like an ant trying to move a pumpkin. A big one. If I could get traction, I’d be okay. The car had spun, hitting the snow bank from the side, so only the right front bumper had taken the impact. The bumper looked a little bent, but I could probably fix that myself. I’d have to check it when I got home. I made my way around the rest of the car, inspecting it for damage. Everything else seemed fine.

When I got to the back of the car, I looked at the road to see if I’d be able to back out. Ice patches littered the ground, but not so much that I couldn’t see pavement.

I opened the trunk, pulling out a bag of salt. I grew up in Montana where winter weather is as bad as Gunnison’s. I keep bags of salt in the trunk for extra weight to give me more control in the snow, and for times like tonight when I slide anyway and need to use the salt for traction. I sprinkled a few cupfuls behind each of the tires to help melt the ice and give the wheels something to grip as I backed up. I bent down to lift the bag of salt and was suddenly hit by the sharp smell of wet paint. I wrinkled my nose. Weird. Someone must be doing home improvement—and they had potent paint. I put the bag of salt back in the trunk, the area around me illuminated by a street light. And that’s when I saw it: a black misty shadow.

It happened so quickly, it took me a minute to register that the shadow had darted from the tree behind the snow bank—the tree less than ten feet away from me—to the side of the red brick house that would have given me a street bowling strike if not for the snow bank bumpers.