Chapter 1
I have a secret.
A terrifying but absolutely wonderful, magical secret and that's why it's a secret. No one believes in magic anymore. I'm not talking about kid's birthday tricks, I mean real magic. The kind that can take your breath away, or knock all of the wind out of you, or sweep you off your feet - both literally and metaphorically. I am an Angel.
Not the kind that have wings - not until you get into heaven that is - we're the kind that are born with gifts and we are challenged by how we use that gift. There are three types of angels: white-soul angels, black-soul angels and broken angels. That's what I am, a broken angel.
The white-soul angels are the nice ones, the good guys. They have unlocked the full extent of their gift and are very powerful; they use those powers for good. In contrast to them are the black-soul angels they have also unlocked the full extent of their gift but use their powers for evilness. Broken angels are scary - well, to me they are. Normal people can't see which people are angels as they all look like humans since they get their wings at the end of their lifetime, which can be unnerving, but broken angels can't tell the difference from white-souls to black-souls. Broken angels can easily change like the weather; they may start off good but being in the presence of a black-soul they can begin to do evil deeds without even realising its evil. The worst thing is they can begin to enjoy it.
That's why I've got trust issues. I was an orphan until Scotia and Seth adopted me. I don't one-hundred percent trust either of them. Oh, they know about angels; they are angels. But I can't tell which kind. I did ask once when I was younger and Scotia laughed - suspiciously - and said 'we're white-souls, silly.' I've been too timorous to ask since. I always had this image of me accusing them of being black-souls and suddenly they admit it whilst attacking me and I was too late to protect myself.
My town's pretty weird. Some unusual names - like mine, I suppose, Ryvre Storm. Angels can read minds and use telepathy on any human or angels. When they use telepathy on humans, humans take it as an instinct but when it is used on other angels, they can actually hear the voice of the angel using it. Every angel has a twin-soul - a soul mate - born within the time the angel was born, either the same day or the same month. The chance of finding your twin-soul is very slim. Only one in five thousand do find them. The feeling you get when you find them, I've heard, is like falling in love. They're the sun and your whole world orbits them. You would do anything for them, kill for them or die for them. If they die it's like apart of you dies with them.
I've grown out of that fairytale. I mean, look at Cinderella. She had to go get her prince and he didn't even remember who she was. I, however, have no intention of waiting around for him to come and 'rescue' me. My motto is: stop waiting for Prince Charming. Get up and find him. The poor idiot may be stuck in a tree or something.
Just another miserable Monday morning and I was walking up to the entrance of the horrific world of high school. I'm half way through year twelve and I'm stuck here for another year and a half in sixth form. You've got the typical groups that you get in every high school. I don't stick to the same groups; I'm what you might call a drifter. That's how I know that my twin-soul isn't in school. As I settled into my first lesson after tutor, I heard rumours spread throughout our English class about a new boy coming to school.
'He comes from America.' One girl said.
And there he was, in the doorway with the head teacher behind him. He was tall, had dark brown hair, blue sparkling eyes and was dressed in jeans and a dark grey t-shirt. I would bet a lot that he had a six-pack underneath his shirt. His skin was tanned from living in sunny America and his black leather jacket was hanging over his bag.
'Mrs Jackson, this is our new student.' Mr Wood interrupted the class. 'I'm sure you will all do your best to get him settled in. Must be off, have a meeting to attend.' Mr Wood then left the boy standing alone to handle his first lesson.
'What's your name?' Mrs Jackson smiled.
'Ace Hunter, where should I sit?' The gorgeous boy answered with full confidence.
'There's a seat available behind Ryvre.' Mrs Jackson pointed to me. 'Please take out your notes from last lesson.' Mrs Jackson's desk was in front on mine. She leaned over and whispered, 'Ryvre your notes were very detailed and well written, could you do me a favour and lend them to Ace - he needs to catch up and why not learn from the best?'
'Mrs Jackson,' I smiled, 'flattery won't get you anywhere but because you're a good teacher, I'll do it.' Then I turned around to Ace with my notes, 'here you go, Ace.'
He flashed me his brightest smile and said, 'thanks Ryvre. You're cool.' Could he be anymore wrong?
'Uh-huh,' I turned back around in my seat. I noticed that most of the girls in the class kept glancing at him. When Mrs Jackson had gave us our work to do and allowed us talk quietly to those around us, Ace threw bits of paper at me so I turned around to face him and said, 'it may be fun to waste trees and throw pieces of paper at other people from where you come from, but over here it's called being a pain in the backside.' I smirked and then said, 'So...' politely but added flatly, 'would you knock it off?'
'Girl with an attitude, nice,' he raised his eyebrows completely unfazed by my comment. 'All I was going to say was can I meet you at lunch to discuss your notes?'
'Absolutely... Not.' I turned around to face a frowning Mrs Jackson. 'What? He was being annoying.'
'But you could still help him out, Ryvre.' Mrs Jackson pointed out and then said to Ace, 'will you stop annoying Ryvre if she helps you?'
'Absolutely,' Ace purposely made me wait to hear the 'not' part, but he never said it.
'Who knows, maybe you two will get along.' Mrs Jackson smiled. 'And I expect good grades from you both.'
What a jerk! I screamed in my head. Mr "Oh, look at me. I'm the new American bad-boy. I can do whatever I want."
In maths, Ace kept staring at me and nodded at me when Miss picked me to answer a question and I got it right. In science we had a practical, and Ace kept "bumping" into me whenever he went to collect some equipment or a chemical or even if I walked by him. And every time he did bump into me he wore that stupid bright smile at me. I felt like calling "Ryvre's Smile" just because he kept flashing it at me.
In French we were going over the vocabulary that we "may have forgotten over the holidays" and Ace needed to borrow a pen from me. When I noticed he had one in his pencil case already. I stayed behind after class to ask Mr Colbert when the exams are as they may clash with psychology exams and I noticed that Ace packed up his stuff and was leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded and a smile stuck on his face.
'Do you ever not smile?' I asked Ace as I passed him.
'Do you ever do?' Ace ricocheted and fell into step next to me. 'So, where are you going?' He asked when he noticed I didn't head in the direction of the canteen.
'The library,' I answered tersely, 'is that a problem?'
'No. Not a problem. Do you always hang out at the library?' Ace asked as he followed me.
'Only when I want to be alone,' I mumbled, 'why are you following me?'
'Well,' he sighed sarcastically, 'my parents told me to always follow my dreams... Sigh.' He was pretty funny. He actually got me to smile like how he does. 'Hey, you're smiling!'
'Yeah and you can keep dreaming.' I said defensively. 'So bad-boy, tell me the real reason you're following me.'
'Bad-boy,' Ace repeated, 'I like it. Anyway I'm here because I wanted to discuss your notes with you.'
'Fine, you can come to my house later and I'll help you catch up on everything you need to know, just as long as you stop with the throwing paper thing and don't pretend like you don't know that all the girls in class are falling for you.' I turned to face him. He was so tall compared to me.
'Oh, you've noticed, huh?' Ace's cheeks went red. 'Look, my love-life is kind of complicated so... don't, you know, fall for me or anything.'
'Don't worry, I won't,' I laughed which stomped him and walked off saying, 'your love-life isn't the only one that's complicated.'
The library, the place full of fantasies, freaks, fairytales, stories... everything. I'd love to sit there for hours reading a good book but we only get forty-five minute lunch. Sometimes, when I can't focus - like today - I scan each row, reading the blurbs of some books. It's fun to see the variation of the stories. The heroes, the heroines, the funny characters, the serious characters, symbolism, the places, the relationships, the mysteries... So much life can be created through words and sometimes I'd wish that I could live in a story.
But that's all they are: stories. Reality is a harsh reminder of that. The real stories aren't as much fun to explore. Yes they can be quite intense or funny but a real story compared to one created by someone else's imagination? Nothing can beat that.