Dark Roses: Eight Paranormal Romance Novels

by P. T. Michelle

  He isn’t smiling.

  CHAPTER 3.

  Pine Boy, whose name is actually Lucas—thank you, pointless attendance roster—hustles away after chemistry without a word. I wander out at a more measured pace, not anxious for the open time after Cell. Everyone over the age of thirteen has an hour to waste before going home. My Cellmates will end up at one of the three public establishments in town: the pizza parlor, the bowling alley, or the park. They never extend an invitation for me to join them, but I probably wouldn’t accept anyway. It’s just another chance to give away my secrets.

  Consequently, my free hour is most often spent wandering alone around town. The day gets colder as the sun sinks toward the horizon and I curse my haste to leave the Morgans’ without a sweater this morning. Maybe Air would relax with the autumn chill thing if I asked nicely. His dead, pitiless gaze pops into my mind’s eye and I shiver.

  Maybe not.

  Today my meandering leads me to the park. A brisk wind continues to blow, stirring up the colorful leaves and swirling them across the sidewalk. The breeze pierces through my thin shirtsleeves and attacks my skin, raising goose bumps along my arms. I check my watch but there are still forty-five minutes to survive before going “home” is an option.

  The inner park is a large clearing filled with toys for little kids. This time of year sunflowers shoot up above the waist-high grass past the clearing, their bright yellow faces and velvety brown noses mocking my gray spirits. A thin grove of trees scatter beyond the flowers, less than twenty deep from the end of the field to the boundary separating us from the Wilds. For the moment their dramatic leaves brighten the drab afternoon.

  A group of teenagers spin on a merry-go-round meant for much smaller children, but the cover offered by the trees allows me to give them a wide berth. I stroll as far as permitted, all the way to the city limit. An electric fence surrounds the park and I resist the urge to run my hand over the boundary to test its power. A silly thought, I know.

  My mind wanders as I gaze through the wire fence, woven tight to keep the predators out. The forest is dense, and though leaves rustle and branches tremble, the plant life hides whatever lurks. A shudder starts in my shoulders and makes its way down through my toes.

  Animals.

  Evil creatures that would maim, rip, and kill humans without a second thought. If that doesn’t work, their diseases will do the trick. When the Others came to our planet they erected the twenty-foot boundary to ensure our safety. Farther out a net hangs, stopping about six feet from the earth to prevent the flying creatures from getting in. The Others walk in the Wilds sometimes. Humans never do. It’s not Acceptable to leave the safety of town, not that anyone would.

  There’s no reason to believe the Others would lie about our inability to survive without their protection. They’ve taken care of us since coming to this planet, guarding us against attack, providing for us, ensuring our happiness. But lately my ingrained fear of the animals struggles against jealousy. Not because I want to be out there with them, but because I envy their freedom.

  The trees shimmying in the breeze are mostly oak and maple, lacking both the scent and lush green of a grove of pines. The thought of pine trees reminds me of the unsmiling boy in my chemistry block. Focusing on that mystery is far more interesting than moping about being cold.

  The events of the day replay like scenes from a movie, the questions surrounding the boy burrowing under my skin. It might be the season, the new Cell year, or my unexpected arrival just this morning, but I can’t shake the feeling that something significant is about to happen.

  Another silly thought. Nothing changes in this world.

  A glance at my watch reveals a mere ten minutes until curfew. I’m not sure what would happen if I were late, seeing how I’ve never had the guts to try it. Instead of summoning the courage to flout the rules, I step into a jog.

  Around the corner of the Morgans’ street, the sight of a boy lying on his back two houses down, staring up at the sky, stops me short. The mop of blond curls and dingy red backpack tell me it’s Pine Boy. That he lives nearby is a surprise, though I don’t know why. I can’t even remember the last time I lived in Danbury, and people employed in certain Careers do relocate from time to time.

  He sits up and sees me standing here gawking at him and makes an effort to appear happy. The corners of his mouth look like they would fall down if he let them, like they’re being pushed up and held instead of lifting of their own accord. Having spent years manufacturing my own smile, spotting another fake one is surprisingly easy.

  As I draw closer, the swirling air lands on my tongue, eliciting a cough at the sharp taste of pine. Maybe he woke too late to shower this morning and overdid it on the cologne. Our gazes fuse until an uneven spot on the sidewalk forces my eyes forward again. Fog grows inside my mind as he mutters something under his breath and heads inside.

  When our eyes locked it felt as though the world ceased to be. Like the opposite of the crushing emptiness of my traveling nightmares, where the world still is but I am not. Just now, staring at this strange boy, it felt as though only the two of us exist.

  The premonition that change waits on the fringes of my world returns in a rush and squeezes my lungs. I’m suddenly certain that the appearance of this boy is part of whatever’s coming.

  I crash through the Morgans’ front door as the clock chimes five, struggling to catch my breath and get it together before Mr. Morgan looks up from his paper. The normalcy of the scene helps. Each day after work Mr. Morgan changes out of his dress pants and tie, exchanging them for faded khakis and a white polo. Running water and clanging pots mean Mrs. Morgan is fluttering about the kitchen making dinner. Without laying eyes on her I know she’s wearing a floral print dress covered by the same feminine apron she had on this morning. Mrs. Morgan doesn’t believe in wearing pants. The closet here boasts more dresses and skirts than my other two combined and I’m lucky she acquires jeans for me at all.

  With a deep inhale I push the corners of my own mouth up, the effort bringing back the memory of the boy’s smile as I hang my bag by the door.

  “Hi, Mr.…Dad. I’m home.”

  He glances at the clock, flicks a glance my direction, then returns his eyes to the paper. “Hi, honey. Better go get changed and start on your homework. The pot roast will be delivered any minute.”

  I try sneaking past the kitchen with a tossed hello to Mrs. Morgan but she calls me back, greeting me with a hug. She mashes potatoes on the stove, and the smell of bubbling corn casserole wafts from the oven. This mother’s cooking stands out, but they all only prepare side dishes. The Others dress, sanitize, and deliver all our animal proteins.

  “I know you need to get changed, but come tell me how it feels to be a Terminal!” Mrs. Morgan beams at me like it’s an accomplishment, when all I’ve done is age.

  “Great, Mom.”

  “How are your friends? Is everyone excited about the Gathering?”

  That one question, combined with the churning feelings stirred up by the day, rattles me. My palms heat up. “Yes. Excited. I’m going to change now.”

  The bedroom, orange and brown and sterile and not mine, brings the reality of my bizarre life crashing down.

  Of course she would assume I have friends and that we discuss the most anticipated event of the autumn, of the last year. That’s what Term girls do when they stay in one place. I hate forcing myself to look happy every day when my insides are tied up in knots. I hate being different. Not for the first time, I hate Ko for leaving me with just a stupid note. He has no idea how hard it is to not have anyone to talk to. To be alone. To have people look through me, never at me. It terrifies me that he might be lying, that I alone am a Dissident.

  That there are no more like me, whatever I am.

  With no one around to see, water falls from my eyes and spills down my cheeks unchecked. I throw myself onto the thick bedding and curl up into a ball. Memories of the years spent with the Hammonds stab int
o my skin like pins, pricking me with loss so deep it aches in every pore.

  Within seconds, sweat plasters my thick hair to my forehead and the back of my neck. The T-shirt, too flimsy outdoors, clings to my skin as I struggle to rip it off, to release the heat. Free of the shirt, I clutch the comforter until an acrid, smoky scent rises around me and I snatch my hands away. The orange cloth smolders around the edges of my blackened, charred handprints. I dampen the blistering embers with my shirt.

  Calm down, Althea. Get control of yourself. It’s the only way to make it stop.

  This has happened before, in the moments when I fail to staunch the flow of despair. One more way I’m not right, another sliver to bury. Several deep breaths bring back a tenuous control, but the room hovers at least twenty degrees hotter than it should be when a knock sounds at the door.

  “Thea, honey? Dinner’s ready.”

  Before I can answer, the doorknob twists and the lightweight wood swings inward. Panic surges even as my expression struggles toward neutral. I twist my face away from Mrs. Morgan to hide the water, rubbing it into my cheeks. If she were my mother—my real one—I imagine I would run and bury my puffy face in her apron and let her tell me everything will be fine.

  But she’s not. And it won’t be.

  Her deep brown eyes widen as she waves a delicate hand in front of her face, creating a breeze. “Goodness! Why is it so warm in here?”

  She glances my way and I see myself through her eyes, sitting on the bed in nothing but my sensible bra and jeans, sweat running off of me in rivers. But she makes no comment, instead walking to the bay window and turning the crank. It opens wide, cool air racking my sticky body with chills. Keeping a smile in place is harder through chattering teeth.

  Mrs. Morgan pats my head before pausing in the doorway. “I’ll turn in a trouble ticket about our heater. Perhaps something has gone awry. At any rate, dear, finish changing into proper clothes and come downstairs. The roast has just arrived.”

  She turns and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I jump up and cross to the window in a flash, pulling it shut. The room settles into a tolerant temperature a few minutes later, signaling the end of my episode. I should have had my meltdown at the park earlier; then I wouldn’t have been so cold all afternoon.

  There’s no way for me to change who I am, only to hide who I am. Chafing acceptance trickles over me as I peel off my jeans and slip into a thin black sweater and a purple skirt that swings about my knees.

  Mrs. Morgan believes in dressing for dinner.

  CHAPTER 4.

  This is the third Saturday of the month, which means a Family Outing.

  The Others allow adults in public for an hour in the morning, primarily to get fresh air. All my parents exercise every day on the treadmill in the den, but they seem to appreciate the hike outside once a month. The Morgans and I don hideous, matching orange tracksuits and step out onto the porch at nine o’clock. Mr. Morgan stretches his thighs as front doors open and houses spit more tracksuit-clad people into the morning up and down the block. At nine-oh-five, we all walk to the street.

  All of the towns I live in are laid out the same, in a series of rings. Cell, the pizza parlor, and the bowling alley sit in the center. Five loops outside those are streets filled with identical, two-story residences. The park wraps around the outermost edge, a buffer between us and the Wilds. The Saturday Outings begin at Cell and travel along Main Street, the only road that leads directly from the center of the city to the boundary.

  We parade from our homes and gather at the Cell in complete silence. At exactly nine-twenty we spill onto Main Street. I spot the pine-scented boy and his parents the same moment he sees me, raising his eyebrows in a silent hello. An odd combination of pleasure and trepidation fight for my attention, but neither wins and I eventually distract myself by studying the rest of the group. To my right, the girl with the black curls, the one who wants to work in Administration, bounces next to two petite, adult copies of her. A couple of younger children skip next to one another in perfect synchronization.

  The day dawned crisp and breezy, and even though the sun has risen, frosty dew slicks dying blades of grass. The morning is as quiet as the humans moving through it, save the occasional scuff of a sneaker or a swallowed cough. Closer to the boundary we might hear birds singing or animals scratching up breakfast, but not this far inside the city.

  A typical Family Outing lasts about an hour, from nine until ten. Brunch deliveries wait in the kitchens upon our return, and then we watch the afternoon movie together. As we near the boundary today, though, the people at the front of our hiking brigade slow to a stop. I crane my neck, straining to glimpse what has caught their attention. When I do, my stomach plummets into my shoes.

  A group of Wardens stand at attention in front of the boundary.

  I’ve witnessed Wardens in person just four times. I remember them all with clarity; they were the scariest days of my life. I count them quickly. Eight Wardens. I’ve never seen so many in one place before. Never seen more than two, actually, the number sent out to collect the Broken. They flank a large video screen they’ve hung on the fence. Off to one side sits a white plastic table that holds a punch bowl, some blocks of pale pink rock, and several jugs of what looks like water.

  The Wardens are the enforcement arm of the Others’ government, but aside from their tan uniforms with shiny black accents, they look the same as the rest of their race; tall, blond, and beautiful to the point of not appearing real. Unlike the Elements, they have no blue pinpoints interrupting their glossy, black gaze. No whites like a human eye, no pupil or iris. Just an endless void. The effect makes them appear sightless, but they’re not.

  They shouldn’t be here now. No one is Broken. But no one speaks or questions them, even though I don’t think the Others informed anyone of this alteration. We all simply wait.

  Once everyone has entered the park, a Warden clears his throat. “There will be a brief video presentation regarding this change to your monthly Outing, and afterward we invite the Terminal students to join us for a drink celebrating our presence among you in your final year at Cell.”

  His beautiful voice pours into my ears like a sweet coating of honey, but the sight of him embeds a throbbing ache behind my eyes. Looking directly at the Others causes a jabbing pain deep in my brain, like needles being slammed through my forehead. Perhaps because our mere human minds can’t process their superior existence.

  That is what they would have us believe.

  Most of my fellow humans stare at the ground or into the Wilds—no one maintains direct eye contact with the Wardens. My heart spasms and clenches, a sense of foreboding wriggling past my boredom as the screen flickers to life.

  Our Cell Administrator slides into his office chair on the screen, even though he should be on the Outing, not at Cell on a Sunday. I focus on holding my head still, refusing to let it whip around to look for him because everyone else remains motionless. And the Wardens aren’t interested in the screen. Their black-hole eyes train on the crowd, watching for…what?

  The Administrator’s round belly barely fits behind his desk, and he works to smooth his tie into place. Serenity paints his familiar, fleshy face as he smiles and nods into the camera. “Good morning. As you’ve noticed, the Others have dispatched Wardens to Danbury. Their purpose here is to observe and conduct interviews with the Terminal class, which will begin tomorrow. The sessions will be held one student at a time during chemistry, one block each week until completion. The Others wish for me to convey their appreciation for your cooperation in this matter. Thank you.”

  The screen goes black. Sweat dampens the back of my neck, spinning chills down my arms in the clammy morning. They’re going to talk to us alone. Just the Terminals. Why? Since chemistry is my end block, the seventh of my day, I have seven weeks to figure out how I’m going to keep my secrets while alone in a room with a Warden. Or more than one.

  After all these years, fooling the ki
ds at school and my fake parents is second nature, but something tells me the Others won’t be affected by my semi-invisibility.

  The Wardens march to the table. One stands behind the cut-glass punch bowl, a plastic dipper in his hand. “If you would all gather around, we’ll begin serving you in a moment.”

  He doesn’t elaborate on what we’ll be served. My legs don’t want to follow the direction to gather, even though there’s no choice. I can’t refuse, not while my Cellmates shamble obediently closer to the table, forming a loose line. I manage to find a place, nearly bumping into a boy I don’t recognize. His glossy black hair hangs over one almond-shaped eye and he offers a half smile as he motions me in front of him.

  He’s a Barbarus, an uncommon thing here in Danbury. We’ve been instructed that even though the Barbarus look different on the outside, inside they’re like the rest of us. They even differ in appearance from one another. Some have funny-shaped eyes, some a kind of light brown skin or noses that seem too big for their faces. Since they don’t teach us about what existed before the Others came, we don’t know about the origin of the Barbarus, but only a handful remain on Earth.

  Even though a few attend my Cell in Portland, when I turn to thank him breath catches in my throat. The boy’s complexion appears yellow in the dappled autumn sunlight, and he’s barely taller than I am. The slanted eyes, the jet-black hair, and short stature all align with my knowledge of this particular human variation. But his eyes are wrong. They’re a clear sky blue when they should be dark brown.

  It takes a moment to recover, but habit pastes a fake smile on my lips while my brain catches up. “Uh, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I turn around. At the table, two Wardens grab the pinkish lumps and set to crushing them under their hands. The Others prepare food and deliver drinks for us every day, but I’ve never seen the process. Either the substance is soft or the Wardens are strong; perhaps the truth is a little of both. Soon piles of pink dust scatter the white tabletop. A breeze blows some of the particles into the faces of the Terms nearest the table. They giggle, swiping dust off one another’s shoulders and shaking it out of their hair, trading their laughter for violent sneezes after a moment or two.