He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Do you know who this is?”
I look over his shoulder into Hawke’s resolute, tattooed, light-skinned face. My mouth opens, but Hawke gives a faint shake of his head and raises his eyebrows toward a person on the other side of Reid.
I frown and follow his gaze.
Tawny.
Her hands grip Reid’s bicep with fingerless gloves. The moment our eyes meet she looks at Reid, down at the ground, over my head, up at the Wall.
She’s nervous . . . But as I take a deep breath for greeting, her doll face transforms into a harsh frown, focused past me. Then it morphs into openmouthed horror.
A scuffle of movement reaches my ears from behind. Reid’s grip slackens and a familiar small voice shrieks, “Parvin!”
I spin on the dime of adrenaline. Death flees my mind when I see Willow kicking the air with her dirty bare feet, clenched in the arms of an Enforcer.
“Willow!” I stumble toward her.
Willow writhes so violently she manages to slide from the Enforcer’s grasp, but he snags a handful of her skirt.
“Elm! Elm!” She screams toward the tunnel, digging her toes in the dirt, reaching for the Opening.
“Let her go.” I tumble to the ground in my weakness. “Please! Let her go home.”
Two more Enforcers run toward Willow and her captor. The sunlight from the West illuminates the pinprick arch at the end of the tunnel. The light is interrupted when a fourteen-year-old muscled silhouette, the size of a toy soldier, crawls into the tunnel, scrambles to his feet, and sprints toward us.
“Close the Opening!” an Enforcer calls to the Wall Keeper. “More are coming through! She’s brought Independents with her!”
“No!” I gasp as the Wall Keeper sprints to his hut. “No! Hawke, help them!” The door zips shut, missing the tips of Willow’s fingers.
“Elm!” She screams, long and hard. Moments later, faint pounding comes from the other side.
Almost all the Enforcers are now gathered around Willow. I dig my fingernails into the ground, paralyzed.
They want Willow.
They trapped Elm.
Guns are drawn, waved in the air. People start shouting. Mother and Father enter the swarm of Enforcers. Mother shields Willow from the forceful hands of the black hornets. Father shouts at the Enforcers, pointing at the Wall door and then holding up his hands for calm.
An Enforcer strikes him with the butt of a rifle. I scream as he slumps to the ground. I turn around for Hawke, for help. Behind me, Tawny is yanking Reid’s arm, pulling him away from the chaos and back toward the crowd. He gives her a quick kiss, a crushing hug, and then sprints for Father—for the Enforcers raising their clubs over Father, Mother, and Willow.
Skelley Chase is looking at his pocket watch . . .
And suddenly I know what’s coming.
Call it triplet intuition, but the feeling is more sickening than the toxin in my blood.
“Reid!”
A snap of explosion cuts every throat into silence. My nerves collapse.
Reid’s halfway between the Enforcers and me when he folds to the earth like a dropped dishtowel. My lungs shrivel into raisins, choking out my gasp. All I can do is watch his body double like a closed matchbook, his limp form unable to stop gravity’s hammer.
I gape at the body. Immobile. This . . . isn’t right.
Skelley Chase slides his gun back into its holster.
Tawny screams like a strangled animal, her hands clutched over her mouth, and stumbles toward him. Her noise shakes me. I cower. Her wails increase and she tries to lift Reid’s head into her lap.
I lurch toward him. He needs help up. He needs to be washed. I can’t see his face. Reid’s never fallen before.
My arms shake. My voice shakes. A tiny bubble pops from my mouth, releasing his name. “Reid.”
I lift my trembling hand covered in his blood and my face tightens of its own will. “It’s me. Your Brielle.” I look him up and down and straighten his arm so it looks right. “You . . . You didn’t say Good-bye.”
Mother swoops beside me and wraps me tight in her arms, pressing my face into her shoulder. This movement, this action, breaks my brittle dam of control.
“Mother.” I clutch her sleeve. “Mother, it was supposed to be me!”
She says nothing, just rocks back and forth, her chest heaving. Tawny continues to wail and examine Reid’s wound as if it will disappear. I pull away from Mother and reach toward Reid again.
“My—his journal.” I reach over my shoulder for my pack, but my hand falls limp. “I . . . I . . .” Sucking in a breath, I look into Mother’s face through my blinding tears. “His b-blood g-got on your skirt.” My fingers grip the worn cloth. “I didn’t mean to.” It seems important she know this.
“It’s okay,” she moans, rocking even harder.
Someone lifts me off the ground, out of the blood. Mother doesn’t hold me back. Is it my turn now? Are these the arms of the angels?
“I’m taking her to the hospital,” says a voice, laced with sorrow and fury, by my ear.
“No, Hawke.” Someone speaks from close by. “She called your name for help. How does she know you? We’ll take her and this white child back to Unity’s Containment Center. Once there, you and I will . . . talk.”
Hawke doesn’t lower me. “She’s nearly dead, sir.” His voice breaks on the last word and he coughs.
“Just don’t . . . bury me. Burn . . .”
“I put a Medibot in her,” Skelley Chase shouts from somewhere distant. “No need—” His voice cuts off with a cry.
I twist in Hawke’s arms to look. A slice in Skelley Chase’s forehead releases a gush of blood. By the Wall, an Enforcer yanks Willow’s sling from her hand.
Skelley Chase fishes the hurled rock from the ground, tosses it once in the air, catches it, and places his fedora on his bleeding head. He picks up his briefcase and walks away.
“Wait,” I say, deadened. “Wait, he shot my brother.”
He slips through the wide-eyed crowd. Why don’t the Enforcers stop him?
“He went against his promise. I’m here. I came back to save Reid.” I scream after him. “Why?”
What does Skelley Chase gain from this? I don’t understand.
Hawke’s arms squeeze me tight and I catch a new smell: Wind. Thatch. Blueberry ink.
I struggle against him. “Hawke, stop. He—”
“We can do nothing about it right now, Miss Parvin.” He sniffs.
My muscles tense against my forced movements. “I’m sorry about Jude. I didn’t know his Numbers.” Our brothers are dead and it’s my fault.
“His death was his choice.” Hawke’s words are barely audible.
“Ch-Choice? But . . . a pirate chip terminated him.”
Hawk shakes his head. “Only because he let it.”
I cough twice before finding my voice. “Wh-What do you mean?”
“Not here. Not with Skelley Chase nearby.”
Skelley Chase. The name rakes nails over my heart and I curl against Hawke’s chest, too exhausted to sift through the mysteries and sorrows surrounding me. “Chase went against his promise,” I whimper. “My brother’s dead.”
Dead. Dead. Dead.
The word turns into a mocking heartbeat. Against my will, my mind becomes clearer, my memory turns sharper, and my breathing starts to regulate.
“You’re not going to die.” The way Hawke says it carries remorse, like he knows how terribly I wanted to die, like he wishes he could ease my pain.
But he’s right. I look at the blood-smeared gift encircling my wrist, given to me by a betrayer and murderer. The watch is no longer blue, but still blinks the time.
13:32.
I’m seven minutes late for my Good-bye.
Now I
know. The question that immobilized my childhood is answered. Who’s going to die? Who’s going to die?
Reid.
Reid is going to die.
Somehow, he knew it. He tried to warn me. He was able to prepare himself. Jude knew, too. He saved my life. They both seemed to see something in my future that I was blind to. Now, I’ve lost them both. I’ve been left behind.
Why?
I am calling you.
Calling. I thought this death was the end of my calling, the climax and final act to save a life—Reid’s life. But now I see God is beyond the Clocks. He’s beyond my misplaced faith.
I am calling you.
And I will answer. I must answer, for I am now an empty shell open to a new vision—a greater vision. Against my will, I came back to the East. God wouldn’t let me survive my Numbers—He wouldn’t force me to live past Jude and Reid—if He didn’t have something even more tremendous in store for me.
Right?
Shalom is not yet here. Maybe I’ll be the one to bring it.
I have Radicals to save. I have an albino girl to protect. I have an assassin to hunt down. And I have a bone to pick with the Council about Jude and a certain biographer.
I know secrets. And they need to be revealed.
Jude’s Good-bye echoes through my mind. “I’ll see you soon.” Now Reid is saying it, too.
I’ll see you soon, I send to them both, just not as soon as I thought. First . . . I have a calling.
My heartbeat grows stronger, sapping up the stolen beats from Reid’s sleeping frame. Pounding.
Pounding.
Pounding a fresh new rhythm of invisible Numbers.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t care that I don’t know them. All I care about is that I will use them. For Reid. For Jude . . .
For Shalom.
Acknowledgments
So many people have been influential in my process of seeing A Time to Die in print. To walk the path toward the publication of a debut novel has been longer and more exciting than I ever could have imagined. Very little of it would have happened without the many instrumental people God deemed crucial to my writing process.
First and foremost, I attribute every ounce of joy, process, growth, and success to my Lord and Savior—the bringer of shalom. He interrupted my busy life with this story, one I’d never planned to write. Now it’s changed my life. I love You, too.
Now on to the mortals. Thank you to:
My husband, the first person to really grasp my passion for writing. You push me to write no matter how dirty the house is, because you know I love it. Thank you for listening to my ramblings and for reading thirty different versions of my book.
Jeff Gerke, for seeing the story the way it was intended to be seen and for inviting me to be a marcher lord. Thank you, also, for inspiring me to be a better writer far before you ever considered me as an author. I will always admire your vision.
Steve Laube, for your continued patience as this newbie wades through the waters of publishing. You’ve put forth every effort to make my book stand out. Thank you for believing in it.
Kirk DouPonce at DogEared Designs for a phenomenal cover. Karen Ball, for pulling my manuscript up the last step between a hopeless ending and a hope-filled one. You forced me to ask “why” about everything I wrote. I’m so glad you did.
Melanie, for being my writing buddy for life. Our brainstorming capabilities when combined over chai in Barnes and Noble will take over the world someday. Count on it.
Mom (aka. “The Typo Queen”) and Dad, for reading to me as a child and for accepting my love of writing despite putting me through grad school for a completely different profession.
Binsk, for having more feedback than I’d expected from my non-bookish brother. Beth, who led me down the path of imagination before I knew how to appreciate it (“A story is brewing . . . don’t talk.”)
My Brandes family, for supporting and encouraging me in more ways I’ll ever be able to thank you for. I’m honored to be a Brandes. To Jason, for always asking, “How is the book going?” (That’s more encouraging than you know.)
Cailyn, for letting me spout all manners of enthusiasm regarding writing that made very little sense. Both you and Brad helped me find new understanding in the word shalom. Life changing.
Brenda, for being the first person to ever read my fiction (you didn’t know that, did you?) and for being a fellow imagineer. Jennifer Griffith, who took me to my first writer’s conference and helped me survive the aftermath of realizing I knew nothing about writing. Megan David, the first person to read the full manuscript. Thank you for your feedback and your friendship. Maggie Foulk, for being a story-loving, word-weaving roommate.
Micah Chrisman—the first fellow author with home I was brave enough to meet and have coffee-writing sessions. Thank you for also pushing me to be bold about my writing. Seth Branahl, for challenging me to write a female protagonist (seriously, A Time to Die without Parvin? No way . . . )
Angie Brashear, my fellow critique partner, friend, supporter, and prayer warrior. Your encouragement has been priceless. Meagan, Ashley, Katie, Eleanore, Ben, Anna, and all my other beta readers.
The Inspiriters—my priceless critique group who supports me with friendship, encouragement, and constructive criticism. Angie, Clint, Nancy, Carol, and David…thank you.
My Biola Family: Julie, for late-night chats about characters; Melinda and Lauren, for constant enthusiasm; Jonathan, for endless imagination and passion for life; Andrew, for support and encouragement only a Biola family member can give; Jared, for inadvertently showing me how important meaning is behind my writing.
Lastly, but so important, thank you to every single reader who has picked up this book. You took a risk in dedicating hours of your time to reading my words. You know I don’t take “time” lightly. Although not everyone will like Parvin’s story, I pray for each of you and pray that the story leaves you better off than you were before you read it. May your time never be wasted.
Tally ho.
About the Author
Nadine Brandes learned to write her alphabet with a fountain pen. In Kindergarten. Cool, huh? Maybe that’s what started her love for writing. She started journaling at age nine and thus began her habit of communicating via pen and paper more than spoken words. She never decided to become a writer. Her brain simply classified it as a necessity to life. Now she is a stay-at-home author, currently working on next book. A Time to Die, is her debut novel.
Visit her web site: nadinebrandes.com
Facebook: NadineBrandesAuthor
Twitter: @NadineBrandes
A Time to Die Page 44
