by Jaymin Eve
I took a few steps closer, leaving the safety of my wall. My arms hung loosely at my side, my stance relaxed and ready for battle. I stopped halfway, ten feet from the man, his features shadowed but discernible in the backlight.
An average man, albeit a little weathered. His dark hair was peppered through with silver highlights and it was cropped close to his scalp in a haphazard manner. Either his hairdresser really sucked or he cut it himself, with a blunt knife and no mirror. It was a small relief that he displayed no facial tattoos or clothing insignia from the local gangs. Although, truthfully I was more comfortable with the monster I knew. The motives of gang members I understood.
This man I did not.
His clothing looked tattered, an array of brown and tan fading into each other. The shabbiness didn’t disguise their unusual quality and style. He could have stepped off the pages of my history books, elaborate military-style dress with large medals on each shoulder.
What was this mystery man doing on the streets? Out here there were Gangers, the occasional lost human (dead men walking) and the crazy homeless beggars. But this man didn’t fit any of the profiles. A lone wolf. He emanated a unique strength and power, but more than that, he was strangely familiar. In an almost involuntary movement, I took a step closer. The cooling air sent chills down my spine. It was either that or the energy pulsing in the space between us.
I was now close enough to distinguish the dark blue of his eyes, shrewd and perceptive. On top of that his commanding and charismatic presence dominated the space. What a plethora of contradictions. This familiarity was crazy; I had never known anyone but the rebels from my compound. So what was my connection to him?
And then it hit me. Figuratively speaking.
I’d been probably nine years old, I guess. It was only the second time I’d escaped the compound. The situation in New York was not as bad then, but being a child I’d had more restrictions. The first ten minutes had been fun and uneventful. But then I’d noticed a group of men standing near Central Park. Unsure of the situation and worried for my safety, I decided to make my way home. It had been near this very street that I locked eyes with a man. This man. I was sure of it now.
The same warmth ... the same strength ... the same sense of safety had reached across the space to me.
As a child, I hadn’t even hesitated, stepping onto the road toward him. I’d taken three steps before he’d smiled sadly, lifted his hand in a wave, and taken off into the park.
The memory had stayed with me for years, gradually fading until now. I guess any psychiatrist would assure me he was the reason I ran the streets: I had been searching for him.
Standing here, eight years later, he still evoked feelings of warmth and safety. And my curiosity would not be denied. My sensible side was demanding over and over that I move my butt out of there, but, if I hadn’t listened for seventeen years, I wasn’t about to start now.
He didn’t seem dangerous. Just standing there – silently.
So, I conveniently ignored that he’d grabbed me only five minutes before. What did I have to lose?
Don’t answer that question.
Since my escape from his clutches, he had made no attempt to approach me again. Usually this would be to lull me into a false sense of security. But the vibe I was getting was the opposite. I tapped my foot reflexively. For the world’s most impatient person, it had reached the point where I couldn’t stand the silent staring any longer.
Time to speak up.
What’s the worst that could happen? Yeah, I threw that out into the universe ... I liked living on the edge.
“Strange man with horrible haircut,” I acknowledged his presence, “who are you and what do you want?” My words cut through the semi-darkness.
There was a subtle change as my words broke our stare-off. His muscles tensed, as if expecting a confrontation. I tilted my head to the side. It seemed important to hear him speak; I felt like I had been waiting my entire life for this moment. His lips turned up at the corners.
“Fiery redhead, with an attitude.”
I smiled at his words. He had a sense of humor. How refreshing.
“I am your watcher, miqueriona. Tell me, what is the name you are called here?”
The words were thick, his voice rusty and unused. With the combination of unfamiliar accent and gravelly voice, I barely registered the question. Instead, I stood there, mouth hanging open. A sudden and unexpected burst of emotion was wreaking havoc with my central nervous system. I had never heard anything as beautiful as that accent. It was lilting, somewhere between speaking and singing, and was old fashioned, like his clothing. It soothed as it flowed down the alley like a river of warm honey.
Any normal day I would think I’d just experienced some type of mild psychotic episode. And, yes, I did say normal day. I considered his strangely phrased question.
“My name is Abby, so that’s what I’m called here, and everywhere else.” I paused for a moment. “What’s a micwa rena?” The wording, so beautiful in his accent, sounded odd and disjointed from me.
I waited patiently. Well, pretty patiently. My hands were not on my hips yet, and my foot had only tapped twice.
Then he dived at me.
It was so fast I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been looking directly at him. My obsession with his voice had relaxed my innate self-preservation. I’d let my guard down and now it was too late. Standing next to me, he was huge, towering over my five-foot ten-inch frame. He had my right arm again, gently this time. Don’t ask me how that happened. My movements were in slow motion compared to his. He flipped over my wrist, and we stared at the diamond-shaped mark, just visible in the dim lighting. Curved around the small of my wrist, the smooth purple mark looked larger than usual.
“Miqueriona, my little one. Have you ever wondered why you have this mark?”
Abigail, get the hell out of there.
I wasn’t sure if that was my inner voice or an outside force issuing direction. But something was telling me to ignore the inviting warmth and ... well ... get the hell out of there.
So what did I do?
Stared up into his piercing blue eyes and continued the conversation. I’m a slow learner.
“I know why I have this mark. It’s a birth mark.” That may have come out like I was speaking to a two-year-old.
The man smiled. His teeth were straight, white and perfect. Not typical of many street people. He was definitely keeping some secrets.
“Who am I? Not important.” He continued, and I had to admit it, I was in love with his accent. “What do I want? Much more important. But right now there is no time to explain.”
Between the randomness of the conversation and his accent, I was struggling to understand.
“But you are the most important of all, young Aribella. Now is not the time for questions. Danger lurks in the darkness. I will locate you again. And as difficult as you will find this, try to be patient. Your time is coming.”
I opened my mouth to stall him; he couldn’t leave yet. But he never let me speak. Changing tactics, I gripped his jacket. My hands tangled in the extra cloth along the sleeves. The material was unusual; it looked rough and coarse, but in my hands felt as smooth as silk.
“And stop roaming the streets. It is too dangerous for you. Salutia, miqueriona.”
Then he tipped his head and, escaping my grip, was gone.
More than annoyed, I took off after him, following his path onto the street, but it was deserted.
Impossible!
I’d just met the older, grumpier superman, because no one could disappear that quickly. Breathing, I winced as my ribs pulsed hot sharp jabs at me. If I didn’t stop falling down, my body was going to go on strike and refuse all movement. I glanced at my battered old watch. Crap! It was after eight; I was going to miss last class. The matron was sure to kill me this time. No idea why people worry about the danger on the streets; they should live in my house.
I took off along the p
ath at a reasonably fast pace. I was confused, even more than usual. He called me Aribella and miquw awara something or other. The first one was a name, for sure, and the second definitely another language. My heart raced. I needed to find him again. I wanted to look now, but he was right: the dark was hunting-time; the predators emerged. Tomorrow, I decided, would be much safer.
I was passing familiar streets; I was almost home. Though, trust me, it was missing a few of the homely essentials. The cold stone building where I grew up was Compound 23. One of the dozens of hidden dwellings where children were stashed. I’d been dumped on this one’s doorstep. Figuratively speaking. The under-eighteen compounds are single sex and secluded. The training grounds for future rebels.
Lucy, my best friend, lived there with me. She helped me smack down a couple of bullies when we were three and we’d been inseparable ever since.
While keeping a steady pace, I had to remain alert to dodge the random array of trash in my path. Downtown New York was just rubble now. I hadn’t seen her in the prime of her life, but I imagined she was magnificent.
Pausing before the front gates, I glanced around to determine I was alone. Crazy vines covered the outside of what looked like an abandoned building. But there was a minute high-tech security panel hidden in the wall. I pressed my palm against the scanner before entering the password and finishing with voice authentication. All of this security: barbed wire fences, video surveillance – and still girls disappeared.
The human-trafficking movement had gained strength over the years. We lived in constant fear of ending up in that life.
The gates opened and I slunk inside. The landscape within the estate was barren. The barriers which were designed to protect cast an ominous prison feeling. Old photos that hung in the hallway depicted the manor surrounded by lush gardens, but all that was left now was scuffed dead grass and some scattered leaves. Suffice to say, it offered protection but no warmth. Opening the large front door, I stepped inside.
“Where have you been, Abigail Swish? Class has started and I see you aren’t in it.”
I jumped at the sound of the cold high voice behind me. Spinning around, I hesitated to deliver a smart-ass reply. Standing, hands on her bony hips, was Patricia Olden, head of Compound 23. Her black hair was short and slicked back, framing her sharp features. She was forty-five years old, one of the youngest leaders among the rebels. Her joys in life included being a controlling bit... witch ... no, I was right the first time – bitch. On top of that, her loathing of teenagers was legendary. This was my mother figure, hence why I ran in the ganglands.
She continued speaking, arrogance and derision dripping from every syllable, “I don’t care if you tattoo yourself, get a face full of piercings and join the Gangers, but if I have to see your face under my roof, I expect to receive my full cash payments. You will make it in time for every single class.”
“Since I’m tattoo and piercing free,” I glanced at my watch, “and classes have only just started, I’ll head that way now.”
The resistance planned to take back the city by breeding the strongest rebels. It was a long-term plan. Very long-term.
Education was deemed to be of utmost importance. Future rebels were trained in both academics and combat. They paid the compounds per class attendance, so it was priority one around here. It was also why junior compounds were single sex. Less distraction.
Marching over, Olden grabbed me roughly, her bony fingers pinching my arm. She dragged me across the hall and we ended up in our main classroom. Using my free arm, I attempted to protect my injured ribs. Breathing was becoming somewhat painful.
The teacher paused. She was resistance-employed, around sixty years old, but it had been a hard sixty years. As Lucy would say, ‘the lady has city miles on her’. The pain dulled to an angry throb as Olden released me.
“Mrs Crabbe, note Abigail Swish is present for this class.”
The teacher glanced at her watch before nodding. “A little too close, Patricia. I’ll let it slide today, but have your girls here on time in future.”
As she shuffled off to open her attendance book, Olden rounded on me.
“You will make every class from now until you’re eighteen. You have irritated me since the day you arrived. It’s a bad habit that will not serve you well on the streets.”
“I can imagine.” I said drily. “Seeing as I was one when I arrived, must have been all the dirty diapers.”
Ignoring me, she continued, her voice dropping dramatically. “You’re eighteen soon, Abigail. No one will be around to protect you then. You’ll be on those damn streets you love so much.” Her thin lips curved slightly, a cruel smile. “You have no idea what awaits you.”
Da dum dum, wasn’t she dramatic tonight. With one month till my eighteenth, Lucy and I had been trying to figure out what to do. Most made their way to an adult rebel group. Junior compound leaders were supposed to direct you. And that was my dilemma – Olden was not trustworthy.
Throughout the room, girls were studiously reading their books, hoping her attention wouldn’t turn toward them. Not Lucy, though. She sat near the back of the room in her usual spot, glaring daggers in my direction. Luckily, Olden appeared to be done for the day. Turning to leave, she was out the door in record time, like she was afraid if she spent too much time with us she’d catch something. In my opinion her absence was the most enjoyable aspect.
Threading through the room, I made my way toward my desk. I dropped into the chair, ungracefully, of course, painfully jarring my side. Ignoring this, I faced the front. The teacher continued the lesson in her tedious tone. In ten years I’d never had an interesting teacher; I was beginning to think they were myths, like unicorns and comfortable high heels.
Movement to my right caught my attention. Lucy Laurell, best friend, still glaring. Her gorgeous, doll-like features all screwed up in annoyance. Big blue eyes narrowed. Major PMS mode, if you ask me. Lucy was tiny, barely five-foot, and angelic with shoulder-length wavy blond hair, big blue eyes and a delicate heart-shaped face. But the delicate facade covered a core of steel and determination. Something I knew first hand.
When we were six she’d forced me to perform a blood bond. She’d decided this was the number one requirement of sisterhood. I hated the sight of blood, often throwing up or, in extreme cases, fainting. But somehow, despite her size, she held me down and hacked away. The painful memory will always be with me, along with a crooked scar along my left palm. Lucy was no surgeon.
“Where did you disappear to, Abigail?” Her low voice sounded calm but I wasn’t fooled.
“I was unexpectedly delayed, Luce, but I’ll tell you about it later.”
She’d been in a martial arts class when I’d left for my jog. I’d planned on it just being a quick one. Shaking her head in exasperation, she turned back to face the front.
I tried to pay attention, but the constant droning was sleep-inducing. Right now we were in urban landscape skills. Module three includes camouflage, identifying and containing traps and some chemical warfare. Important stuff. If only they’d splash out on a teacher that had real life experience or at minimum an actual interest in the subject. I’d been outside the gates more than Mrs Crabbe. If Lucy wasn’t such a good student I wouldn’t have passed a class. I rested my head on my hand and stared aimlessly toward the front. It was going to be a long hour.
Chapter 2
After dinner, Chrissie, a lanky fifteen-year-old with masses of thick brunette waves, cornered me in the hallway. Living up to her Goth persona, she was dressed entirely in black.
“Where were you today, Abby?”
We sat on the bottom ledge of the large wooden staircase, just down the hall from the dining room.
“Went for a jog outside the compound.”
It was unusual to spend time chatting with Chrissie, she hated small talk.
She fidgeted a little. “You were gone for a long time. What’s it like out there?”
I shrugged. “It’s fine
most of the time, although I’ve had a few scary moments.”
A calculating look crossed her face. “Not this week, Olden’s here, but next time she’s away ... um ... can I come?”
My eyes widened.
No one ever wanted to go outside the gates. I couldn’t even get Lucy to run with me. Chrissie was too young to be allowed out on her own; we’d have to sneak.
“Uh, sure. If you really want to.” I wasn’t thrilled to have the responsibility of another person out there. But I was curious and I’d hate to think she’d brave the streets on her own.
Nodding, Chrissie jumped to her feet. “I would very much like to see what’s happening outside the gates. Let me know.”
I nodded as she walked off.
That was strange.
I made my way upstairs to get ready for bed. As an added bonus the delay resulted in an empty third-floor bathroom. The room held an array of toilets, sinks and shower stalls, and with twenty girls currently residing it was rarely unoccupied. I took my time brushing my teeth and washing my face. We have strict water rations here, two-minute showers and drop-pit toilets.
Finally clean, I straightened to meet my own green eyes reflected back at me.
As a child I’d been painfully shy, hating any attention. Their unique color – almost the jewel tones of emerald green – and large oval shape assured I received plenty of stares. But now I no longer cared about blending in. I was just grateful I didn’t have the freckles usually accompanying red hair and fair skin.
Although my hair was another anomaly. It fell in curls, not quite ringlets except those shorter tendrils framing my face, to my mid back and it wasn’t a standard golden red; instead it was a deep blood red with undertones of black. It was unusual enough that the girls speculated I’d somehow managed to procure hair dye. An item that’s been non-existent for many years.
