Dying Forever (Waking Forever Book 3) Read online

  Driving back uptown toward her house near the San Antonio Medical Center, Alison resolved to not meet and greet any more strange and beautiful women in mummy exhibits, as clearly nothing good could come of it. She also was committed to never tell another soul about the humiliating endeavor. Her ego could only take so much.

  Chapter 2

  Alison’s two-inch black heels clicked smartly as she trotted up the concrete stairs towards her first lecture of the semester. She was dressed conservatively in a black pencil skirt hitting just below the knee and a burgundy, short sleeve button-up shirt from Banana Republic.

  University of the Incarnate Word was founded in 1881 by the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate. Grounded in Judeo-Christian tradition, the university was originally a women’s college and didn’t begin admitting men until 1970. Though Alison was an atheist, she didn’t mind the slightly religious slant the school still took with regards to overall academics and when considering new students for admission.

  The university was relatively small, with less than ten thousand students in attendance. Its size, along with the pseudo-Baroque style architecture, was more reminiscent of an east coast university than one located in South Texas.

  The relatively low student to professor ratio also provided Alison the opportunity to form more meaningful and long term relationships with her students. She was a mentor to three undergraduates and knew many of her students by name, something the larger universities in the state didn’t allow for.

  The door to the lecture hall was open, and Alison glanced at her watch to see she had less than three minutes before her Founding Myths - The Birth of a Nation class started. The class was an introduction to American folklore, and though she hadn’t had a chance to review the complete participants’ list, she knew the class was full.

  A low hum of voices emanated from the room as Alison walked through the door. Students walked back and forth, greeting each other, and finding their seats. Putting her worn leather mailbag down next to the wooden podium, Alison did a quick scan of the room to see nearly all fifty desks were full.

  “Good morning. I’m Professor Bailey. If you would find a seat, we can begin shortly.” Turning toward the white, dry erase board that ran the entire length of the room’s back wall, Alison picked up a black marker and wrote in large, block letters Founding Myths - The Birth of a Nation, and then her name, office hours, and email address.

  Putting the marker down on the thin metal tray that jutted out from the base of the white board, Alison turned to face the class. “This is the class you are in.” She pointed over her shoulder toward the board. “Founding Myths, The Birth Of A Nation. If this is not the class you registered for, please exit via the door at the back of the room; otherwise - welcome.” She smiled warmly in an effort to reassure the mostly freshman attendees.

  A three second pause, and two men getting up to leave later, and Alison pulled the university-issued iPad from her bag. Over the past two years, the devices had become standard issue to both faculty and students. “Please bring up the syllabus for this class.” Several taps and screen swipes later, Alison laid the tablet on the narrow lecture podium, attached the overhead projector cable, and began to pace back and forth as she spoke.

  “You should have the text book Folklore and the Founding of America. In addition, you should have the supplemental workbook.” She saw a young, blonde woman seated in the front row turn a bright red and begin to sort through her purple JanSport backpack nervously.

  “If you do not have one or both of these texts, do not fear.” Alison made eye contact with the young woman and smiled. “You can purchase or download them from the university bookstore prior to our next meeting.” The girl’s shoulders relaxed, and she put the backpack down on the floor next to her.

  Alison went on to explain her expectations around attendance, assignments, and the testing format and schedule for the semester. “With the housekeeping out of the way, let’s get started.” She walked to the white board and, taking the black marker in hand, wrote folklore in large block letters. “What does this mean?”

  Turning to face the class, she was encouraged when several hands went up. Choosing a young man near the center of the room at random, Alison pointed to him. “Yes?”

  “Should I stand?” The boy was no older than seventeen, his face was flushed with a rather severe case of acne, and his voice cracked with nervousness as he spoke.

  “Yes, please, so everyone can hear.” Alison encouraged.

  The boy stood and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his faded jeans. “Folklore - traditional customs, beliefs, stories, sayings, or ideas that are not true, but that many people have heard or read.” The young man sat back down in his chair quickly.

  Alison tried not to be too obvious with her smirk. It never failed - every term at least one student channeled the Tracy Flick character from Tom Perrotta’s book Election. “Thank you for that clinical explanation of folklore, Mr. -”

  “Foster - Brian Foster, ma’am.” The boy answered.

  “Mr. Foster, thank you.” Alison never discouraged participation, especially on the first day, but she was hoping for a more esoteric definition.

  “Anyone else?” She scanned the room and saw a long, thin arm jutting up from the back row. “In the back, sorry I can’t see your face.”

  A moment later, Bryce stood up, and Alison felt a wave of prickling heat shoot up her neck and across her forehead. Putting her hand on the podium to her right, she took a deep breath, hoping desperately that her discomfort wasn’t obvious to the entire class. “Yes, Ms. - Ms.?”

  “Whelan. Bryce Whelan.”

  Alison was relieved she didn’t follow her name with ma’am. She felt humiliated enough about what had happened without being called ma’am by a woman she had hit on a few days ago. “Ms. Whelan – how would you define the word folklore?” She forced herself to make eye contact with the woman.

  “I just wanted to add to Mr. Foster’s definition by saying folklore can be legends, music, oral history, proverbs, even fairy tales. It’s a way of sharing beliefs and fears and hopes across generations.” Bryce sat back down, her face now obscured behind three rows of her classmates.

  Alison swallowed, her mouth dry. Of course Bryce would say something perfect. Of course the woman who had left her sitting alone in a bar would absolutely get it. “Thank you, Ms. Whelan. That was an effective elaboration.” Effective elaboration? Jesus, Ali, you’re brilliant. “Anyone care to add to Mr. Foster's or Ms. Whelan’s comments?”

  Seeing no other hands raised, Alison finally launched into her lecture, hoping the beads of sweat weren’t too obvious.

  Chapter 3

  Alison wanted to bolt from the classroom immediately upon completion of the lecture. Unfortunately, several students approached her about the initial assignment to create their own tall tale relevant to the founding of America. Looking over the shoulder of the young Asian girl who wanted to know if she could include Asian Americans in her story, Alison saw Bryce waiting patiently near the door.

  “There’s really no limits to what you can include. Use your imagination.” Alison repeated this mantra for the second time. This particular student clearly struggled with ambiguity.

  “I understand, but if I include an element that isn’t accurate to the period, will you count off?” The girl persisted.

  Usually Alison would give the freshman her standard spiel about how, being in college, they were expected to set their own path and extrapolate from one experience to another in order to reach a conclusion. Instead she opted for the quick response. “No.”

  Tossing her iPad into her bag, Alison took a deep breath and followed a stream of students toward the door. Bryce fell into step beside her as they exited to the hall. “Alis - Professor Bailey, can I trouble you for a minute, please?”

  Alison sighed heavily. “Quickly, Ms. Whelan. I have a department meeting in fifteen minutes, and it’s across campus.”

  “I’ll walk
with you.” Bryce was either ignoring or was oblivious to Alison’s irritation.

  “Suit yourself.” The toxic mix of anger, hurt, and embarrassment was boiling up in Alison, and she wasn’t sure she would be able to maintain her composure much longer.

  “I know what happened last week was rude and I -” Before Bryce could finish, Alison stopped abruptly, looked around the crowded hallway, and walked toward an empty class room.

  “Come on.” Alison waved a confused Bryce over and shut the door behind her. “First, Ms. Whelan, rude doesn’t begin to describe what you did to me. Second, given our current situation, it would appear for the best that we didn’t - well - date.” Alison clenched her jaw. “And speaking of that - what the hell are you doing in my class?”

  Bryce frowned and looked down at the beige linoleum floor. “I -”

  “Speak up. I can’t hear you.” The harshness in Alison’s voice surprised her, and the hurt look on Bryce’s face forced her to realize she didn’t want to be this angry person. Alison took a deep breath and tried to physically will the resentment out of her body. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

  Bryce’s green eyes shot up and a look of relief passed over her face. “I got nervous about having drinks with you - thinking I would say something stupid. So instead I was a coward and ran away. Second, I’m auditing the class and had no idea when we met that you were the professor. You just gave me your first name, and I didn’t make the connection.”

  Alison looked at Bryce for several seconds. Her anger dissipated, but the hurt continued to grip her chest, leaving her feeling short of breath. “Okay then. So, this is – this is awkward, but let’s soldier on.” Alison was suddenly channeling her father. “I mean, there’s no reason this should interfere with your studies, and in retrospect - like I said - it’s for the best that we didn’t - didn’t -”

  “Date.” Bryce timidly interjected.

  “Exactly.” Alison reached for the door knob. As she opened the door, the noise from the busy hall rushed in. “So, I’ll see you in class Thursday?”

  Bryce smiled. “Yes, and thank you.”

  Alison managed a nod and left both the room and Bryce behind. She stopped in the hall and looked back as Bryce exited the room and walked the opposite direction. Alison’s heart was still racing as she tried to exhale the intoxicating scent of oranges and vanilla that seemed to radiate off of the beautiful redhead.

  “Is she one of your students, Alison?” A woman’s voice startled Alison out of her daydreaming.

  “Jesus! Annabel, you scared the crap out of me.” Alison nearly knocked the woman over as she spun around to face her.

  Annabel Putnam was a professor of religious studies. Because she and Alison essentially had the same boss, they ran into each other periodically at events for the College of Arts and Sciences.

  “Clearly, that was not my intention.” The woman’s cadences when she spoke verged on sing-songy, and she always seemed a little out of breath.

  “Of course not, I was just-” Alison took a step back. “I was just wrapping up.”

  Brushing a loose strand of her raven colored hair off her forehead, Annabel looked past Alison and down the hall. Her eyes narrowed. “With that woman?”

  Alison frowned as she followed the woman’s fixed gaze to Bryce, who stood at the farthest end of the hall talking to an older man Alison didn’t recognize. She had only spoken with her colleague a handful of times, but no matter the topic, it seemed as if the woman verged on offensive when she spoke. To make matters worse, Alison didn’t think the woman even realized it.

  “Yes. Quick conference with a student - well, she’s technically auditing the class - so -”

  Looking back at the dark haired woman, Alison stopped. The woman’s normally olive tone skin had paled, and she looked as if she might faint. “Annabel, are you okay?”

  Annabel’s brown eyes suddenly looked watery. The distracted woman blinked quickly several times, then took a deep breath and nodded, forcing a wide smile onto her face. “The redhead is your student?”

  “Ah, like I said she really isn’t-” Stopping mid-sentence, Alison willed herself not to justify Bryce and hers relationship. It was ridiculous because for one thing, there was no relationship, and clearly Annabel didn’t care anyway, as she was waving her hand dismissively in front of Alison.

  “Anyway, are you going to Barry’s meeting?” Annabel asked.

  Barry Whitman was the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. A stocky man in his early fifties, he insisted - in spite of the many objections of his staff - to hold faculty meetings in the middle of the day. This usually made lunch impossible, but by Barry’s reckoning, early meetings avoided potentially uncomfortable, alcohol laden exchanges if the meetings were held after hours and off campus.

  “I am. Would you like to walk together?” Alison wasn’t really in the mood for company, in particular with someone who she didn’t have a great rapport with, but she didn’t want to be rude considering the nature of departmental politics. A peer today could be a department head tomorrow.

  Reaching into the front pocket of her black slacks, Annabel retrieved her cell phone, and began quickly typing as she spoke. Without looking at Alison, she walked past her, their shoulders brushing. “You go ahead. I have to grab something from my office.”

  Alison shrugged. “Suit yourself.” The woman didn’t so much as look back at Alison as she quickly made her way down the hall. Looking past her rude associate, Alison was relieved to see Bryce was no longer there to witness her uncomfortable exchange with Annabel. She had reached her embarrassment quotient for the year already, and it wasn’t even lunch yet.

  ***

  “An important symbol in American myth, Paul Revere derived his status less from his own achievements and more from the perceptions of the society that elevated him to hero status.” Alison paced back and forth in front of the class as she spoke. Her eyes wandered from student to student, careful not to make eye contact with Bryce. “This phenomenon is particularly interesting with regards to America - who having separated from England and its cultural icons, was left without a history of its own.”

  Brian Foster’s hand shot up. This was the third time he had interrupted the lecture with a question that was less about him clarifying a point and more about him demonstrating his knowledge of the topic.

  “Yes, Mr. Foster.” Alison managed not to sound annoyed.

  “In your book, Beyond Salem - Heresy and Hysterics, you speak to a similar occurrence around the myth of Plymouth Rock and the legacy that instilled in the original settlers of the Colonies.” The skinny, red faced young man exaggerated his hand gestures as he spoke.

  “What’s your question, Mr. Foster?” The boy was taking ass kissing and know-it-all-ism to new heights.

  The student’s eyes widened, and his usually red face glowed an even brighter crimson as several of his classmates snickered. “I was hoping you could draw the parallel for the class.”

  Alison shook her head. “I can and I will, Mr. Foster. In due time.” She turned her attention back to the class at large and inadvertently made eye contact with Bryce, who was sitting at the end of the third row. It was Alison’s turn to blush as the beautiful woman smiled at her. Clearing her throat, Alison managed to finish with her lecture in spite of her voice being drowned out by the loud beating of her anxious heart.

  “Great lecture.” Alison looked up as she slid her iPad into her bag. The attractive man standing in front of her looked to be in his late forties, with dark brown hair graying around his temples. He had on a pair of dark blue jeans, a western style button-up shirt with a brown and black plaid pattern, and a pair of dark brown leather cowboy boots that peeked out from under the boot cut jeans.

  “Sorry - have we met?” Though nontraditional students - people going to college for the first time after raising a family, or returning for additional degrees later in life - were not uncommon, Alison was certain she had not seen the man in any of her classes.


  “My bad.” The stranger extended his hand. “I’m Tom Hutchinson. I’m a freelance writer for Texas Monthly magazine.” The skin of his hand was coarse and warm. The slow, meandering pace of his cadence when he spoke led Alison to think he was from North Texas, or possibly Oklahoma.

  Alison shook the man’s hand. “Alison Bailey. Nice to meet you.”

  His smile was genuine and warm. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Professor Bailey, but I admit I’ve come to you with ulterior motives.”

  Her curiosity piqued, Alison put her bag down and turned her full attention to Tom. “How’s that, Mr. Hutchinson?”

  The man shook his head. “Please, call me Tom, and if you’ll have a coffee with me, I can explain.”

  Alison looked at her watch. “Sadly, I only have twenty minutes until my next class, and I have to walk across campus to get there.”

  Tom frowned. “Too bad. May I walk with you?”

  “Sure.” Alison pulled the leather strap of her bag over her shoulder and walked toward the door. Once in the hall, Tom walked alongside of her.

  “I’m a big fan, by the way. I’ve read both your books, and I think they’re fascinatin’.” The man practically gushed.

  Alison chuckled. “Now I’m suspicious. I can’t imagine what your motives are when you’re softening me up like this.”

  “Not at all.” The man’s smile was contagious as they exited the building and wound their way along the congested sidewalk. “A Witch’s World and Beyond Salem are some of the best academic writings I’ve seen on witchcraft and witches in America.”

  “Read a lot of that sort of thing?” She still wasn’t sure where this conversation was headed.

  “Up until recently, only in my spare time.” His smile faded.