Dark Roses: Eight Paranormal Romance Novels

by P. T. Michelle

  “Down the hall. Thea will show you.”

  I retrace my earlier steps as the Healer’s words echo in my mind. The Regional Healer is Other. He might be able to tell what really happened to Mrs. Morgan.

  I do my best to stay calm with the Healer trailing me into the den. After he sits behind the desk, he waits for me to leave the room before turning on the device. I linger outside the door, hoping to overhear the conversation.

  The same voice that greeted me spouts out a moment later. “Yes, how can I help?”

  “There is an illness here that needs to be reviewed by the Regional Healer. Please send transport.” The Healer’s voice booms confidently, even though he probably doesn’t have to do this often. The term Regional Healer is new to me. One more thing they never told us about.

  “Describe criteria met.” The voice remains flat and unimpressed by the staggering events of my evening. Imagining the handsome face doesn’t hurt like looking at it does.

  “Talking oddly. Attempting to run away.” The Healer ticks the insane events off like a list of homework.

  “That is Acceptable. Transport is on its way. Estimated arrival time: four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Good day.”

  The sound of the Healer’s muted footsteps approaching the door gets me moving. I sprint down the hall and shut myself in the wasteroom before he walks past. The sound of my erratic breathing fills the dark silence until I hear rider doors slam shut outside.

  Back in the living room, two Others march through the open front door, some sort of bed suspended between them. The sight of the technology catches me off guard; it’s not something the Others share with us. Seeing it stretches the gulf between our species so wide that their side is no longer visible from mine. The fluffy-looking mattress floats waist-high beside the couch, proving their superiority without a word.

  The Others stand at each end, not dressed like any Wardens I’ve ever seen. The realization stops me short. Besides Wardens, I’ve never seen Others in person. These two wear identical white shirts with short sleeves, pants, and pristine white sneakers. Besides their clothing, though, they look the same. Longish golden hair. Black eyes. Symmetrical features. Intimidating. Painful.

  My gaze slides to their necks. It’s there. The mark shaped like the star of my locket.

  They lift Mrs. Morgan, one grabbing her head, the second scooping up her feet. It takes me back to the afternoon when the Wardens did the same to Greg’s body. These two take more care with Mrs. Morgan as they settle her among the bed’s white folds. Leather straps, invisible until now, snake up and secure her feet, hands, and forehead without help. One of the Others flicks his long, tanned finger and the cot floats toward the door. The Healer acts like he’s seen this before, but Mr. Morgan’s eyes are as wide as mine.

  As one Other follows the cot outside, the second turns to Mr. Morgan. “You and your daughter will come with us.”

  CHAPTER 13.

  Mr. Morgan nods and stands without a hitch. I have no idea what to do. To hesitate will make it clear they should be suspicious of me. To go with them could mean being found out. They don’t wait, expecting me to follow without protest, since everyone does what they say.

  The Other ushers Mr. Morgan out the door and turns back, watching me through keen eyes. My brain urges my feet to step forward and my face to remain blank. Neutral is all that’s manageable right now, which must be Acceptable at a time like this.

  If only he would move. The doorway grows narrower as I approach, constricting the path past him. He won’t miss the heat pouring off me or the swirling scent of jasmine.

  A quick, focused attempt at calming down does little good. I walk the remaining half of the room and the heat in my face and palms, where it’s always the worst, heightens. The smell I can’t help, can’t turn off. Hopefully he’ll assume what Lucas did—that the fragrance is some sort of perfume.

  I draw in a breath and hold it as our bodies draw near enough to touch. My mind screams in panic, and the odd voice that doesn’t sound quite like my own spreads words of comfort through my head.

  He’s waiting for you to pass. He did the same thing with Mr. Morgan. Stay cool. Literally.

  It works, or at least he doesn’t knock me down and drag me away. I hug my side of the door frame to avoid touching him. A breeze blows his shiny blond hair back a bit, the close-up sight of the scar battering my frayed senses.

  The cool night air ruffles my sweaty hair, a welcome respite from the stuffy, oppressive house. My lungs pull in great gulps as I head toward the rider hovering at the curb. Without years of practice controlling my expression I’d be a goner already. A few short moments alone with Others for the first time in my life and I’ve already noticed how they see me. They don’t look through me. I don’t confuse them.

  It’s terrifying.

  Sixteen years on Earth and riders are still a rare sight, even considering they’ve been in Danbury twice already this autumn. The sight of the transports normally tighten my chest, and the idea that I’m about to get inside one makes me feel ready to explode. The Others’ impatience at my uncertainty outside the open door wraps around my body like a glove. Realizing how a normal person would act in this situation makes it that much harder, since it goes against my every instinct.

  They would trust the Others.

  I take a deep breath, plant a foot on a little bar six inches off the ground, and leap inside. The Other slams the door behind me, then crawls into the front seat beside the driver. I wedge into the smallest of spots between Mr. Morgan and the Healer, my hips smashed against theirs and my arms crossed in front of me.

  Across from where Mr. Morgan, the Healer, and I crowd on a bench, Mrs. Morgan lies immobile on her floating bed. In separate seats facing forward, the two Others operate the controls. They each have a set in front of them and it appears they both play a role in making the transport go.

  As soon as the door clicks shut the rider takes off. At first it’s not too impressive. I’m more focused on trying to keep the temperature inside the cramped space from broiling everyone than on the view, or the mechanism of the transport. Keeping control gets harder as our rider approaches the boundary and slows down, rolling to a stop a few feet from the electric fence. From my spot in the middle, facing front, the entire scene is crystal clear.

  I wish it weren’t.

  When we pull to a stop, the Warden sitting on the left side swings his door open and climbs out. He walks up to the boundary, then makes a sharp left into the trees. After about twenty seconds a gate opens in the fence. I’d never have guessed it was there if it hadn’t happened right in front of my eyes.

  The Other climbs back into the rider and we pull forward through the gate. It closes behind us, trapping us in the Wilds. Trees of all shapes, types, and colors surround the rider as we move along. Our speed increases outside the boundary, the world blurring until nothing is distinguishable.

  An attack of claustrophobia hits me as we slip farther and farther from the familiar and enter a place I know I’m not meant to be. I’m sure we’re all about to suffocate in the tight quarters, and panic rolls over me in waves. It washes out of me as heat and before long, the rider is sweltering.

  First the Healer, who’s a bit heavyset, starts fanning his face.

  Then a sheen of sweat appears on Mr. Morgan’s tall forehead.

  By the time the Others feel the heat wave, I’ve lost control. My panicked attempts to rein it in, to staunch the fear, only make the rider hotter. The driver glances toward his counterpart and I strain to make out his words. I think he says, “Too many bodies in here.”

  Without warning a window in the roof cracks open and autumn air rushes through the transport. Sweet relief courses through my body, causing my knees to go weak and tingly. It’s short-lived, though, as the rider eases to a stop.

  The doors open and the Others stand, waiting. “Please get out.”

  We oblige. After all, they did say please. The Others have impeccable manners.
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  We all do.

  The night is opaque, oppressive even, as I step out of the transport and squint. Mr. Morgan climbs out behind me, followed by the Healer. One of the Others beckons the floating bed with one long finger and it also obeys his command to exit the rider. My eyes start to adjust to the darkness, and I glimpse the outline of a tall building towering above us. It’s as black as the surrounding night, but moonbeams glint off its surface. The structure reaches so high it’s impossible to make out the number of floors in the milky moonlight.

  Perhaps I couldn’t see the top even if it were day.

  One Other starts into the building, where the doors slide apart like the ones at the Administrator’s office. We all follow, and without checking, I know the second Other brings up the rear. Though my mind races at breakneck speed, it doesn’t land on how to get out of this nightmare. Instead I follow the Other in the lead, docile and obedient. Choices stumble through my head, even though my gut says nothing can help me now. I could fall down and pretend to be ill, too. I could run. I could stay and play along, praying they don’t notice anything odd.

  Right.

  Running is not an option. They’ve driven us outside the boundary. The location is unfamiliar and the sheer number of animals between here and town ensures I’d never get back alive. And if I did, they’d be waiting. Acting hurt or sick would get me Broken for real.

  Playing along is the best choice. The Others have no reason to expect a fight, no reason to suspect someone like me exists. People report the Broken, if that’s even what I am. The Others don’t spend much time considering humans any kind of threat. They don’t spend much time considering us at all, as far as I can tell.

  At the end of the lengthy hallway, along which we’ve passed not a single door, the Other stops in front of a solid wall. I’m convinced we’re walking straight into a tomb—fitting since we’ll probably never walk out of this place alive. He presses his hand into the material, leaving an imprint behind, and within seconds the wall starts to go transparent. I blink, and the wall is still gone. We walk through the gap into a huge room. If this is a tomb, it’s big enough for everyone in Danbury.

  The room is vast and intimidating; the ceiling could be non-existent and the walls to the left and right are barely visible from where we stand. Dozens of tables, piled high with tubes, metal boxes, glass jars, and more vaguely menacing machines, clutter the floor. None of it is recognizable. It’s dusty and unused, and somehow old compared to the rider and the building and that floating bed.

  For some reason the sight of it ramps up my fear enough that I worry about my hands lighting something on fire.

  The Others lead us through the tables, keeping to a path that winds its way among them. We reach the back of the room and stop at a glossy black desk littered with notebooks. Two flat screens sit back-to-back, one facing us, the second turned toward the chair.

  The Other seated at the desk is a woman dressed in business attire. Another first for me on this night of unprecedented events.

  Maybe this is an actual nightmare. Perhaps I’m about to wake up in Iowa at the Clarks’, and it’ll be winter. Squeezing my eyes shut, I give it a try. When I peek again, the blazing beauty of the female is the only thing in my range of vision. Pain stabs behind my eyes. Her star mark is redder than the men’s.

  She speaks in a voice as intoxicating as her face. “Please enter your names.”

  The screen facing us lights up, glowing a soft blue and illuminating the Healer’s paunchy features. An entry bar appears. He states his name and the letters type across the screen. The computer accepts his declaration, replacing his name with another blank bar. Mr. Morgan follows the Healer’s example, then it’s my turn.

  The name Althea Morgan might not even be real. I hold my breath but no alarm sounds.

  The Other beckons us through a door behind the seated woman, scanning a pale blue beam across our eyes as we pause beside him. We file past in the same orderly fashion we’ve displayed thus far. The lights are dimmer back here. The ceiling remains out of view but these walls are closer together. The claustrophobia from the rider returns and I blink sweat out of my eyes.

  Three floating cots span the room, the only furniture except for a table. Some sort of machine sits on top of the latter, an oven-sized metal box with a video monitor decorating the front, vents opening on the back. Two levers on the right side, one red, one black. A strange silvery hat hangs off one corner. It doesn’t reek of disuse like the mounds of wired equipment in the previous room. These sleek and shiny surfaces come from the competent, advanced hands of the Others.

  Two new Others slouch along the far wall, looking annoyed to see us. They’re younger than most of the Wardens, and much younger than the white-clad Others who brought us here. They’re maybe a little older than me.

  I have no idea if the lives of the Others resemble ours in any way, if they age the same way we do, or at all. All of the Others look youthful. Their skin is taut and shiny; their hair is thick; they walk ramrod straight.

  The expression in their eyes isn’t innocent, though.

  Until now I’ve pegged them all as middle-aged. One of the two who brought us here, the one who drove, steps forward and speaks to the younger ones.

  “These three need to be refreshed. The woman is injured but showed signs of shedding her veil beforehand. Wake her up and then make a determination.”

  “Should we call you if it’s suspicious?” One of the annoyed boys looks up, his empty black eyes shadowed by heavy lids. Like he might fall asleep any minute, the whole situation is so dull.

  “No. Do a report, then dispose of her.”

  Chills race along my arms and down my back, hairs standing on end as he continues.

  “Refresh her Partner and the girl and erase tonight. You know what to do. Don’t waste my time with your frivolous questions.”

  He accompanies the reprimand with a hard stare. The boy winces, gasping and clutching the sides of his head even though no one went near him.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” A distinct tremor chokes the air with fear.

  His friend pipes up. “Should we purge their doldrums while they’re under?”

  The white-clad Other breaks eye contact with the skinny one, who immediately lets go of his head while relief floods his face. “No, don’t bother. Connecticut is on the summer purge rotation. They were just done.”

  The Others who brought us here exit the room. The Morgans, the Healer, and I are alone with the insolent ones against the wall. The skinny one is recovering from his fright, though he remains so pale his lips look stained against his waxy skin.

  The stockier boy steps forward to address us. “Each of you take a cot and lie down. I will question you separately on the events of the evening.”

  The Healer and Mr. Morgan take the floating beds nearest the Others, leaving me the one in the center of the room. Not wanting to appear cautious, I climb on to it without hesitation. It holds my weight, doesn’t sink even an inch under me.

  I lie down because they told us to. The word dispose pulses in my head like a heartbeat. I don’t want to consider what it means for Mrs. Morgan.

  The Other charged with attending to her motions her cot through another doorway in the back of the room, closing the door behind him. I imagine the rooms with doors in the back go on forever.

  The second boy watches him go, then turns his attention back to the three of us. “Close your eyes if you’d like; you must be tired.”

  The Other approaches the Healer’s cot. The equipment table floats behind him, suspended just inches off the ground. Like the cots. Like the riders.

  Alarm scuttles through me as the Other talks in a voice much too low to overhear. I can’t eavesdrop so I turn my attention to more productive use, like trapping the heat inside of me before sweat starts dripping onto the floor.

  Like figuring out what I’m going to say when it’s my turn.

  Thoughts of Mrs. Morgan, of what might be happening
to her in the back room, try to force their way in. I push them behind a heavy door in my mind and slam it shut. If I think about that right now that’ll be it. My tenuous control will snap. I’ll boil the room, melt the cot, and it’ll be me being disposed.

  Relief battles with curiosity over learning they aren’t going to purge us. Each town is on a purge schedule; once a year the Others send out a team to treat the humans to a party in town. There are massages, facials, hair colorings, rides, games…and purging. It’s required but I’ve never been to one because all my families attend a summer purge.

  One more thing I don’t do that I’m supposed to.

  The story Mr. Morgan gave at the house runs on a loop in my head. The problem will be if he changes his version. He and the Healer both relax on their cots by the time the Other gets to me. They look to be asleep. The Other’s eyes bore into my body as he approaches my bed. They probe through my skin, see into my bones and brain.

  Maybe it’s just my imagination.

  “Your name please.”

  “Althea Morgan.” I sound calm, sleepy even. That’s good.

  “Tell me what happened tonight, please. Start with when you arrived home from Cell.” His words are clipped and impatient. He barely looks at me, giving the distinct impression that he’d like to be doing something else. I’d be surprised if he’s listening closely to my story. They probably refresh people all the time, like Leah.

  “I got home the same time as always, just before five. I spent an hour or so in my bedroom doing homework, then came down for dinner.”

  He interrupts. “What did you eat?”

  “Um, duck. And zucchini.” The hesitation sends my heart tripping.

  “Go on.”

  “We were eating dinner, and Mom started acting funny. She got up from the table. She was saying weird things—”

  “Weird things like?”

  A glance at his face pains me but confirms my suspicion. He’s still bored. Nothing coming out of my mouth is triggering suspicion. My answer comes forth with more confidence. “Like ‘where am I?’ And ‘who are you?’ Or ‘what’s going on?’” He nods. “She ran to the door and I went over to see if I could help her, you know? Then she fell down and we couldn’t wake her up. I called for a Healer. He came. Then you guys showed up.”