Table of Contents
Synopsis
Copyright
Dedication
Alden
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Afterword
Blank Page copy
Sample from The Secret Heeder
ABOUT
THANKS
I awoke to see a man watching me from the mirror. A chill runs through my body as the familiar robed priest stares at me longingly. He struggled to open his mouth; the stitches that lace his lips together slowly rip apart and jut raggedly from his mouth. His bloody lips stretch wide as he leans towards me, trying to suck me into a deep black hole.
Tristen, a sixteen-year-old teenager, has all he could ever want until his mom develops leukemia. Instead of having the best time of his life, Tristen is going to cancer treatments and watching his mother wither away. Tristen is assigned to work with Ailey on a school project and this triggers the unlocking of an ancient prophecy that changes his life in unimaginable ways. During the day, Tristen feels an inexorable pull to Ailey. Just being around her draws him in completely, blindly and with disastrous consequences. At night, a strange tapping awakens Tristen and he finds a stone faced man staring at him from the other side of his mirror. The man begins to haunt Tristen’s dreams and even threatens to kill his mother as she sleeps.
Then Tristen and his friends find themselves magically transported to Fifteenth Century France. While he’s there, Tristen discovers that that he is the last-born Seeker, destined to stop dangerous men from changing the past. But he is having a hard time accepting that he is anything more than an awkward teenage boy. When they discover his location and try to kill him, Tristen must discover the truth to save his own life and of the ones he loves.
Why does he feel this magnetic pull to Ailey?
Who is the evil priest and why is he haunting Tristen?
And lastly, will Tristen risk losing everything to embrace his destined purpose, or will he get stuck in the past running for his life forever?
❦
Although this is a work of fiction, some of this book is based on history. I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my research. Nevertheless I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as events, conversations, physical properties, occupations and places of residence in order to fulfill my literary goals. Please understand that I am not a historian and, although I have tried to be as historically correct as possible (except for all the paranormal stuff), I’m sure I have made some mistakes.
Any resemblance to actual living persons, names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are purely coincidental, the products of my imagination or have been changed to use in a fictitious manner. If you need help in discerning fiction from reality, please contact my agent to recommend a good therapist. Book boyfriends is a serious issue and if you are having this problem please seek help immediately.
Copyright © 2013 Fleur Camacho
All rights reserved.
Please do not reproduce, transmit, download, reverse engineer or anything else you wonderfully innovative people can think of to do so that you can give or receive any of my work for free. I intentionally keep my prices low so that all can be entertained.
It would really be appreciated.
Every time I step out into the dark,
You are there to catch me.
For my Love,
Who goes out late at night to buy me chocolate
Even when I’m not pregnant
I work to always deserve you
“When we reflect that her century was the brutalest, the wickedest, the rottenest in history since the darkest ages, we are lost in wonder at the miracle of such a product from such a soil. The contrast between her and her century is the contrast between day and night.”
Jean Francois Alden
Prologue
Blood spread over me, a dark copper that overwhelmed the light blue of my cotton dress. I felt an odd detachment from myself.
Where’s this blood coming from?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore the ringing in my ears. When I opened them, I carefully inspected myself to discover the origin of the crimson pooling on my dress. I was surprised to find a body clutched in my arms. My mind reeled as I recognized her.
Dark curls floated peacefully around her head as if she had merely lain down to rest. Her angelic face somehow still looked hopeful, her expression frozen in time, waiting for peace to be restored to our village.
The stare in her now lifeless eyes made me scream. Eyes that had once sparkled with laughter, or gleamed with mischievousness, were now empty, waiting for nothing and no one. Never again would they look to the clouds during a brewing rainstorm or notice the bright colors of the flowers in the meadow. They stared blankly as her dark pupils memorized the details of the ceiling of the barn.
I grasped the small knife protruding from her abdomen and yanked the polluting steel from her wound. In a daze, I stared at the intricate flying butterfly carved into the handle, and then I threw it aside as far as my strength allowed.
A deep and uncontrollable pain filled my chest and ripped my soul apart as I cried out from the darkness inside me. The agony bled from the fresh hole in my soul and spilled into my lap, mixing with her blood. I clutched her to me and sobbed into her breast as I repeated her name over and over. I hoped that by saying the words it would fill her with life and that she would, in turn, wake me from my terrible nightmare.
But this was no dream; there would be no waking from this loss. My child, my dear sweet Jehanette.
Rage consumed me. It replaced the love and laughter that had once filled my heart and now it burned with pure red hate. It was bright, contrasting with the darkness spilling from her body. It spread through me, making my hands shake as it overpowered any other thought. The fury filled my body so completely that darkness overcame all thought and unconsciousness took me.
CHAPTER ONE
TODAY
My unruly, brown hair blew in the wind as I sped down the hill on my bike. I imagined the thrill of what my hands would feel like around the black leather steering wheel of a blade silver Corvette convertible. It was easy to picture the carefree feeling with the top down, hugging the curves of the road and my hand on the gearshift as Lenny blared in my ears. I closed my eyes to imagine it, but an image materialized, blocking out my other thoughts: her face.
Ailey Collier.
I remembered Mr. Becker standing in front of the class, rolling what looked like a very old coin back and forth over his knuckles. He always wore a lab coat — even though he taught history, not science — and had mussed-up crazy brown hair. After announcing a new project that would be worth thirty percent of our grade, he assigned partners.
He looked directly at me as he said her name. It was as if he were watching to see what my reaction would be.
“Tristen Michael, your partner is Ailey Katherine.”
My whole body froze except my throat, which made a slight involuntary choking noise. My heart beat a hundred times per second. It pounded loudly in my ears — thump, thump, thump — while she s
lowly made her way over to the seat next to mine.
I pulled hard on my handlebars to swerve around a bump in the road; reality hit me in the face. My imagination switched to an old Honda: automatic and with a small dent in the bumper. Any color, except that awful violet red. I knew that all of my dad’s hard-earned money went straight to the never-ending pit called Sunshine Memorial Hospital and I’d be lucky to ever get a car.
What an ironic name. Sunshine Memorial.
I rolled my eyes and pedaled faster, hoping to catch enough momentum to carry me up the next impossibly high hill, and my flip-flop almost caught in the pedal. I forced my mind to concentrate on the serious work at hand — getting myself home.
When I got to the old wooden gate to our house, I swung it around and accidentally tripped over the stone that the gate rested on. It was smooth and worn from all the years that the gate swung over it. My ancestors put the stone there, the very last thing they placed when building the home in 1835. I looked up to see my dog, Lucky, bounding across the half-acre between the house and the gate. When I got to the house, I gave him a belly rub while I looked at the garden next to our fruit trees; I was sad and embarrassed how I had let it become overgrown with weeds. I dumped my backpack on the rocking chair on the porch and walked straight to my mom’s room to see how she was doing. As I gave her a kiss on the cheek she opened her eyes.
“Hey Tristen. How was school?” she asked.
I avoided eye contact. I hated talking about school. My face burned red, either from the exertion of biking home or from the memory of my embarrassing moment today in gym, I wasn’t sure. I was so surprised that Greg, my school’s starting center, had actually passed me the ball during our basketball game that I did what came to my brain first — shoot at the hoop. Unfortunately what came naturally to my brain didn’t come so naturally to my lanky male body; the ball didn’t even reach the backboard. I didn’t bother to turn to see who was snickering behind me. I knew that I would never be the guy who made shots.
“Fine,” I answered her. She looked better today; her eyes were brighter than usual. Looking at her, I wondered for the gazillionth time if anyone could see any likeness between us. We both had that Native American tan but her eyes, usually an always twinkling clear crystal blue, contrasted with my dark brown serious stares. Her sandy blond hair that had fallen past her shoulders was so different from my brown hair.
I must have gotten most of my genes from my dad.
I shrugged. Now, her once laughing eyes were clouded with fog from the pain pills. It made me sad to think of what she had lost but I quickly pushed it aside. She was better today and that counted for a lot.
“Let me get you something to eat,” I told her.
I was happy with her improvement and found myself humming as I fixed a bowl of chicken soup for her and a cheese and turkey sandwich with avocado for myself.
Maybe Dad is right. Maybe everything will be fine.
I ate at her bedside and slipped out of her room when she started to doze. After grabbing my homework from my backpack, I went to the rear of the house, whistled for Lucky, and escaped through the back door.
❦
I finished my homework and then closed my eyes and faced the sun. Even with my eyes closed I could still imagine the field around me, the sun reflecting off the new spring grass. I lay down, tried to forget my day at school, and felt the slowly setting sun on my face. Life around me slowly faded and, as I drifted off to sleep, images slipped into my dreams.
The first was a woman sitting next to a man in a barn. She smiled brightly when the man turned and kissed the freckles on her nose. After a while, the image faded and I saw the same woman in the barn but this time her clothes were torn and her hair was wild as she cried. Tears ran down her rosy cheeks and her eyes filled with indescribable pain. There was a raging fire around her, sweeping through the barn. The fire consumed everything in its path but she was completely oblivious to it. She just wept and clutched a small dark-haired girl to her breast. The angel child in her arms was so still, almost… broken, somehow. Her dark hair trailed from her face to the floor of the barn where her arms hung loosely at her sides.
All at once, it was quiet; the noise and fire were gone.
Then, a small brown indistinct shape appeared on the horizon. I stared at it curiously as it floated toward me. I reached out toward it but only clutched at the air. It drifted down, as if following a worn path, and as it came closer to me, the figure grew larger and formed a familiar shape. It appeared to be a man wearing a black sack-like cloth that covered his body from head to toe, similar to the garments worn by priests in history books. His hood was drawn over his head and covered his face. An ancient rope bound his waist. He floated slowly and gracefully toward me. An uncomfortable feeling began to worm its way into my stomach, while at the same time, I was insatiably drawn to him.
As the man drew closer, my alarm grew stronger and I was repelled by his presence. As soon as the man’s face would have been within my view, a sudden chill surrounded me and I sat up abruptly. The field was dark, and I could see my dad cooking dinner in our kitchen through the back window. I reached up to rub my head and pulled a piece of straw out of my hair.
I dropped the straw to the ground, grabbed my books and ran inside to help.
❦
Sitting next to my new partner the next day in history was tormenting. Ailey’s long dark hair was the first thing I noticed as she leaned over to place her books on the table. It was perfectly straight and shiny except for one curl next to her right ear.
“Hey, I guess you and I are together.” She sat down. Immediately, her voice pulled me in hypnotically.
“Yep, it looks like it,” my voice strangled out. I felt drawn to scoot my chair closer but I placed my hands on the table to stop them from obeying.
“We’ve been assigned to ‘France versus England during the Hundred Years’ War.’ Which country do you want? I would love to study England, if you don’t mind. They speak English.” She grinned.
I smiled back uncomfortably. “Uh… yeah. I mean, France sounds great. For me, I mean.”
“Oh. Okay. That was easy.”
I silently cursed Mr. Becker for assigning us to be partners. I could barely speak around her. I could hear him humming “Yellow Submarine” at his desk.
Ailey made a face at Mr. Becker. “Don’t you hate it when he uses our middle name? Why does he do that?” she interrupted my silent cursing.
“I wish I knew.”
“So, what do you think about him anyway?”
“What do you mean by that, Ailey Katherine?” I responded smart-alecky in an effort to get a hold on my nervousness.
She grimaced, and then rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said. “I don’t know. I think that he’s pretty cool.”
Pretty cool? We must have a different definition of ‘cool’.
“But he’s always pretty tough with you,” she continued. “It seems like he’s always asking you the hardest questions and giving you the toughest assignments. Why is that?”
Like being assigned to work with you?
I shrugged to hide my embarrassment, even though it was oddly true. “I don’t know. He’s kinda weird, I guess.” There was an uncomfortable silence.
“So anyhow, do you want work on this after school? Maybe at the library?” I asked.
Anything to change the subject.
“Sure, I’m free today. The library sounds like a good place. There will be plenty of information why England should have beaten the French cavalry to rule their kingdom. They would have won, if only Joan of Arc hadn’t dressed like a boy. The English did have a superior military.” She smiled at me, teasing. Her voice was melodic. I could listen to it forever.
I wanted the world to melt away and listen to her talk all day. I wanted to know everything about her life, all the little details that you never discovered about someone until you knew them intimately.
I couldn’t help but smile as I found myse
lf staring into her coffee-colored eyes and quickly looked down. I didn’t want her to think that I was some weird freak. When I looked up she was watching me curiously.
“Umm… so after school’s over, right?”
“Right,” she agreed.
I smiled self-consciously and then opened my book as Mr. Becker began lecturing.
When the bell rang, after Ailey walked off, I sat back, sighing audibly. I closed my eyes. I felt a strange thrill, while simultaneously butterflies danced in my stomach. I looked up to see Mr. Becker studying me. I jumped up and grabbed my books.
“See you later,” I said as I walked toward the door.
He nodded. “Tristen.”
I stopped and turned toward him. “Yes?” I asked.
He looked up from his notebook, surprised. “Nothing.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were asking me something.”
“No,” he shook his head. I looked at him, puzzled. I shrugged my shoulders and left the room, already anticipating the afternoon Ailey and I would spend in the library.
❦
That afternoon I searched for her in the hallways leading to the library, knowing that she would easily stick out. I remembered how she was dressed earlier; she looked so spring-ish in her white dress that naturally fit her curves and brought out her brown skin. She always dressed better in comparison to the more casual students at our school.
Including me.
Especially me.
I looked down at my flip flops, torn jeans and wrinkled shirt — things I hadn’t gotten around to folding after my last laundry run.
Where did I even get this shirt?
When I entered the library I immediately saw her at a table near the back of the library, sitting with her boyfriend. As soon as I saw her, her soft, familiar brown eyes pulled me in. I could hardly pay attention to where I was going; it was like I was tied by an invisible rope that was pulling me toward her.
The Last Seeker: Book 1: a teen & YA magical, fantasy, paranormal, & adventure novel (TRISTEN) Page 1
