From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars to the Stars: Chapter Seventeen

Jules, Tristan, Bronwyn, and I had taken up one of the long tables at the back of the library, covering the thing with our finals stuff. Midterms barely seemed over; the intimidating display of books, papers, and practice tests felt like an instant replay, not the final seconds of the game. Our junior year hand only a few more weeks left on the clock.

I drop into the chair by Jules just as Bronwyn tells the group she needs a visual aid to go with her report on A Midsummer's Night Dream.

Tristan suggests she just grab a couple from the hallway and ask them to make out in front of the class, since that's all anyone does in the play, anyway.

Bronwyn grimaces as if someone had just driven a railroad spike into her head.

"'Perhaps they may not be interested to do it in front of a classroom full of their peers. Would you do it?"

Tristan shrugs. "Don't see why not . . . for the sake of education."

"Why not, indeed?" Behind me, Sebastien's voice drips amusement.

I swallow my heart back into my chest. "Jeez, are you using me to fulfill some kind of jerkface quota today, or do you like endangering my health?"

Sebastien takes the chair next to mine, dropping a neat stack of notebooks on the table. It makes a stark contrast to Tristan's things, which are strewn about everywhere, threatening everyone else's, as if on some sort of mission to conquer other lands.

"Occasional bouts of terror are better for you than an hour of jogging," Sebastien explains. "You might think of me as your personal trainer."

"I wonder how fast I'd buff up if I just kicked your tuchus every time you annoy me?" I say aloud, slitting my eyes at him.

His eyes widen, as if he wonders if I might have something in common with a psycho innkeeper with a penchant of chopping up his visitors.

A part of my brain knows I should be playing it cooler, maybe mention something about true romance being at the heart of Shakespeare's play to maybe make Sebastien think of The Girl, but most of it is thinking about his long, tapered fingers, and how they make my skin tingle in subtle little waves. My palms itch to steal a spark. Good heavens, am I becoming some sort of energy junkie?

"Joss?"

I jerk and look at Bronwyn. She's got her fingers at her temple, and is grimacing as if in pain. She pushes her chair back and stands up slowly.

"I need help finding a book I think you'll need to look up in the database.

"Sure," I say, drawing out the word, and heading for the terminal.

Out of sight of the others, Bryn puts her head down on the edge of the resource desk and groans. "Joss, if you want me blocking my brothers out of your head, I'd really appreciate it if you keep it to a dull roar."

"Block them out of my head?" I say, confused. "I thought it was me white-noising around in your heads?"

"It's gotten a lot clearer since your attack. Something about that day, and Sebastien taking care of you has, I don't know, ramped up your signal, and it's one thing to feel bad for Sebastien, but do you need to shout out your thoughts to him?

"Besides," she goes on. "We have bigger problems."

*****

In Amsterdam, there's a tiny little coffee house/diner where you can get egg yolks over a slice of ham with cheese and paper-thin tomato slices. Half an hour previous I had not known this about Amsterdam, but—hypothetically—when one is around when it's evening, and a six-foot-four-inch tall Dionadair titan like Tristan announces he's hungry and wants breakfast for dinner, one might find herself in Amsterdam, being ushered into said tiny coffee shop/diner, whereas a second before she'd been about to suggest the Denny's over on Bells Lane. She might not even have the chance to close her mouth before a Dionadair arm winds around her waist to make sure she doesn't stumble from the shock of her sudden arrival. She might even threaten the titan Dionadair with unimaginable torture the next time he tries something like that without giving her a heads up, first.