Was she just a poser? Because why was she drawn to him, then, the kind of boy that every girl wanted to date? Didn’t that mean she was just like everyone else? If only she didn’t care so much; but she did. At heart, behind the quiet and the scowl and the indifference, she cared very, very much.
And then, there he was. Right in the middle of a group of laughing, joking boys—always right in the center, the tallest and handsomest one—the one you couldn’t help but stare at. . .
Jack Force. He must have just gotten back from crew practice on the Hudson. She could always tell when he had been rowing; she could smell the sea air on his skin, in his hair, his cheeks were ruddy and flushed. He looked happy.
For the briefest second he caught her eye—but then turned away.
Schuyler bent down to her books, biting her bottom lip. She had just imagined it, hadn’t she? The kisses, everything. They didn’t exist in the real world. In the real world, she and Jack were strangers. She wasn’t looking, and someone jostled her elbow so that she lost her grip on her bookbag, and the book
—The Plague—tumbled out, and she thought, If this is what some people think is a love story, they are just kidding themselves.
But aren’t all stories about love in some way?
Schuyler startled to hear Jack’s voice in her head, and looked up, but the hallway was empty. The second bell rang, and she was late.
Only the good ones, only the good stories , she thought, wondering if he could hear her, if he was listening.
The next morning, another book had been slipped underneath her door. What was this all about? Was he building her a library? This time, since the book was too thick to fit completely, it had been shoved, stuffed in the opening between the door and the floor, halfway in and halfway out, so that when Schuyler pulled it out, the paperback was bent in the middle and the pages were creased. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.
This time, inside the book there was a note.
173 Perry Street. #10 N. Midnight. Use the key.
She touched the key that hung around her neck, for luck.
The Plague yesterday. Now Pride and Prejudice. Was it an alphabetical choice? she wondered, amused. Talk about a love story. Pride and Prejudice—so obvious, wasn’t it? Schuyler had always been skeptical of its pull until she had spent a long, heady weekend wrapped up in the joys of its combative romance. Elizabeth and Darcy don’t so much fall in love as fight their attraction every step of the way. Schuyler had come to love the book despite her misgivings, to hold its promise of carriages and Pemberley to her chest as stoutly as she believed that Elizabeth should have inherited the carriages and the estate on her own. It was so difficult to imagine such a stringent, corseted world for women; to imagine a life completely dependent on one’s ability to land the right guy. Still, there was something deeply appealing about such a story. It made the romance so much more . . . What did they call it?
High stakes.
In any event, Pride and Prejudice was way more appealing than The Plague.
Feeling reckless and giddy, and just a tad plucky—like the kind of girl who tramped around the marshes in the dark— she scribbled a note and slipped it under Jack’s door.
Mr. Darcy, I will be there as requested. —Elizabeth
At midnight, Schuyler slipped the key in the lock and turned it.
The apartment was dark, which made the view from the floor-toceiling windows even more breathtaking, the dark river against city lights, the West Side Highway a ribbon of yellow taxicabs.
Schuyler stepped inside and looked around. She closed the door behind her. But she was alone. No one was there.
And then, before she could breathe, there he was, solid, against her, his warm lips on hers, his hands around her waist, and she had dropped the key and the book on the floor. She wanted to cry out—to ask questions—but she could feel his heart beating against hers and the intensity of the emotion exploding between them. She returned his kisses with an ardor that she did not know she was capable of—and he buried his face in her neck as if he wanted to breathe in every part of her —and she buckled to the floor so that he fell with her, until they were lying down, still kissing, their bodies entwined like roots of a tree.
“Jack . . .” she finally said, when she had found her voice.
He was lying on top of her, his weight heavy and yet light at the same time—a weight she wanted to bear. “I . . .” She wanted to tell him the same thing she had wanted to tell him since that night when he first kissed her. He had stopped her from saying it back then, but he wouldn’t stop her now. She wanted him to know how she felt about him.
Jack looked at her and raised an eyebrow. He looked so serious in the moonlight, but his eyes were teasing. They were sparkling. This was a boy who spoke through books: longing and exile—The Plague—banter and obstacles—Pride and
Prejudice. He spoke her language. She watched as he, with his hair tousled and his eyes shining, raised her arms above her head so that she was immobile beneath him. The strength in his hold and the exquisite torture of wondering when he would kiss her again was too much to bear. It was painful to feel so much desire.
Then he bent down and kissed her gently, a feathery whisper that melted against her as she pressed her body against his.
She knew right then that she didn’t have to say anything.
They understood each other perfectly.
There would never be anything but this. Stolen moments, stolen kisses, a secret oasis. There would be no public displays of affection. In school and at his home, there would only be indifference and detachment. There would be no holding hands, no study dates, no dinner dates, no dates at all. Ever.
But it was all right. She would take as much as he could give, and for now, it was enough.
FAMILY RECORDS:
FORCE
Charles Van Alen changed his family name to “Force” after his bondmate and twin sister, Allegra Van Alen, broke their blood bond to bond with her human familiar. From his actions we can only conclude that he no longer considered himself a member of the Van Alen family, and thus we have created a new family record to reflect his new allegiance.
JACK FORCE
Abbadon, Angel of Destruction, Twin Angel of the
Apocalypse, the Unlikely, Destroyer of Worlds
Birth Name: Benjamin Hamilton Force, known as “Jack”
Origin: June 7, 1991, New York, New York
Known Past Lives: Henry Searle (Newport), William White
(Plymouth), Louis d’Orleans (Versailles), Valerius (Rome)
Bondmate: Madeleine Force (presumed broken)
Assigned Human Conduit: None
List of Human Familiars: Kitty Mullins (2006)
Physical Characteristics:
Hair: Blond (platinum)
Eyes: Green
Height: 6’2”
As a child, Benjamin Force was known for his uncontrollable temper tantrums and was given the nickname “Blackjack,” which was then shortened to “Jack.” In elementary school, Jack was a whirlwind of activity, unable to sit still or concentrate, and was diagnosed by human psychiatrists as having Attention