My heavy winter coat hangs in the front closet as if I’d left it there after Cell, even though I haven’t been back to Iowa for months. I slip it on, finding my hat and mittens in the pockets. My mother’s voice grows impatient with my stalling, pressing harder and harder against my mind. The idea of stepping out of the warm house and into the bitter wind, not knowing when I’ll find shelter again, fills me with dread.
I have to go, though. I know it deep in my bones. If I can find a place to hide outside the boundary before morning I might even have a chance. Not to escape forever—that’s impossible—but to live another day. Maybe even get back to Lucas.
A blast of cold air nearly knocks me over as I crack open the door and my lungs constrict, trying to reject the frigid oxygen. Icy fingers squeeze my chest as I force myself to breathe deep through my nose. Pools of light from the streetlamps don’t quite reach the rows of houses, leaving the porch bathed in darkness. The sidewalks are barren as I hustle down the quickest path to the park. Thoughts of Lucas bombard me, pushing tears down my cheeks where they freeze around my mouth and chin. The park reminds me of him, of what happened last night when we almost escaped together. The note says he’s safe, but even if he were safe when it was written it doesn’t mean he still is. He’s going to be running, like me. Hunted. Alone.
The park is full of ominous shadows cast by the bare branches as they sway in the bitter wind. The frozen ground muffles my footsteps as I make my way to the boundary. I’ve got to get out of the city, but don’t know how to accomplish the feat. There’s not time to explore every inch of the fence the way Lucas and I did, hoping to find a gap in the electricity. We were able to climb over a dead section of the woven metal, but I found that spot by accident.
I study the electrified ten-foot boundary, at a loss.
Run, Althea. Now! My mother’s voice shouts in my mind.
Shut up. I’m thinking. Better yet, go away.
Before last autumn, when I learned that my mother is Fire—an Element, one of the four most powerful Others—the encouraging voice in my mind soothed me. But the idea that she has access to my brain clangs warning bells through me despite the pull toward wanting to know her. Right now, getting out of Des Moines takes precedence over the confliction I feel about my dubious parentage. She’s distracting me, and my frozen forehead crinkles as I try to focus on the problem at hand. The fences that border our cities are made of metal, so in theory it could melt, I guess. The high-temperature heat that flows through my body would be more than enough to set a pile of leaves on fire, or even one of my precious blankets. If it burned hot enough under the boundary it could soften a hole big enough to crawl through.
It would leave such an obvious trail, though, that I discard the idea. Damaging the fence isn’t an option if I want my fraction of a head start to remain intact.
A memory pummels me, unbidden, accompanied by Lucas’s heart-stopping smile:
“ … I saw you wandering by yourself near the boundary every day last week.”
“You saw me? How?”
“From the trees. You never look up, you know.”
That’s it.
Saying silent thanks and wishing he could hear me, I turn my eyes upward and peruse the tree line. Maybe a hundred yards away an ancient oak stands near the electric fence, its thick, leafless branches hovering over freedom, however temporary. I grimace at its height. I’ve never climbed a tree. In my sixteen-plus years on Earth I’ve never even wanted to climb a tree. But there’s no time like the present to figure it out.
I stand underneath it and make an effort to calm the butterflies flapping in my belly. They’re nowhere near as uncomfortable as the flock that attacks with Lucas’s kisses, but they’re annoying all the same. A deep breath helps. The guts to do this are in there. I injured an Other last night. I hid from the Wardens and saved Lucas from the Prime’s son, the one they call Chief. I can climb a stupid tree.
A strong toss sends my bags sailing up and over the fence; they land with a dull thud on the opposite side. I turn back and face my new nemesis, stowing my mittens back in my pockets. Oak tree, meet Althea, daughter of Fire. I shall conquer you.
I swipe my red hair out of my face and pull myself up on some low-hanging branches. There are plenty of strong ones within reach, but even though the climb isn’t difficult, my limbs shake violently, making it harder than it has to be. Still, the only major problem arises after I crawl out on a long branch to make my escape … when I look down.
The ground spins as my fingers clutch the tree, pointed pieces of bark jabbing the tender skin under my nails. I close my eyes and count to ten. When I open them, the world has stopped moving. My knees move inch by inch and, after what feels like hours, I reach the end. The boundary passed under me five feet back. I gauge the distance to the ground. At least twenty feet.
Maybe I didn’t quite think this through.
Voices filter through the still night and freeze me in place. Men. Several, by the sound of it. I can’t see their perfect faces or feel the stabbing pain that accompanies the sight of them, but their tones are melodious and sweet, oozing across my eardrums like globs of maple syrup.
Others.
Probably Wardens. A quick peek over my shoulder reveals weak flashlight beams penetrating the inkiness.
Their appearance makes up my mind, and I jump.
Buy the sequel at online stores.
If you enjoyed Whispers in Autumn, please check out these other titles from Trisha Leigh:
Young Adult
Winter Omens (The Last Year)
Betrayals in Spring (The Last Year)
Summer Ruins (The Last Year)
Gypsy (The Cavy Files)
Adult (written as Lyla Payne)
Broken at Love (Whitman University)
By Referral Only (Whitman University)
Be My Downfall (Whitman University)
Staying On Top (Whitman University)
Not Quite Dead (Lowcountry Ghosts)
Not Quite Cold (Lowcountry Ghosts)
Acknowledgements
I’ve been incredibly lucky to be surrounded with a team of people far more insightful and detail-oriented than myself, and who helped make this book better than I ever could have on my own. Huge thanks to my editor, Danielle Poeisz, for all of your hard work. You went above and beyond the call of duty, and without your creativity and questions this story would not have blossomed into something better. Thank you for taking it on and for being excited. Also thanks to my sharp-eyed copy editor Lauren Hougen and Nathalia Suellen, who designed and crafted this beautiful cover.
I’d like to thank Wes Samson for being the first non-family member to read my writing and not laugh out loud, even though the piece you read deserved more than one derisive snort. If you had deemed my aspirations ridiculous, this book may never have come to fruition. Thank you for that, and for the reminder that no matter how brief a time a person spends in your life, they can still make a difference.
Thank you to my entire family—all of the Martins, Ziegenhorns, Heinrichs, Ingstads, Tylers, Wearns, and Dickinsons (and everyone else, too)—without a family like you holding a net of support and love, I’d never have had the courage to try. The possibility of failing didn’t scare me because I’ll always have you, and not everyone is so lucky.
To my fellow writers who critiqued for me on this, especially Eisley, Trieb, Ali, Bill, and Beth. Your feedback and encouragement (and yes, Trieb, even your acid tongue) were an invaluable contribution to this story. Rachel, Lissa, and Mom, your proofreading skills are magical and the perfect way to make sure I look as smart as possible.
All of the love to Denise Grover Swank, esteemed author, critique partner, paver of roads, cheerleader, wine connoisseur, and friend—not only would this book not be published without you, I would be rocking in the corner of a padded room shrieking nonsense. You’ve helped me improve my writing, understand this business, and retain my sanity. I cannot thank you enough.
I owe a great debt to the
real Althea, who loaned my character not only her awesome name but her indomitable spirit. And to my teenage beta readers, Julia, Kerstin, and Anthony, for reading, for being so excited, and for attempting to keep me young and in touch.
Sumer, Alison, Brooke, and Karen—non-writer friends who laugh with me, push me out into the world, and stay friends with me even though I’m weird. I wouldn’t be the girl who wrote this story without each of you in my life.
Andrea, my best friend for over twenty years. We’ve laughed, and cried, and seen each other at our ugliest, most vulnerable, and possibly insane moments. I take our friendship for granted sometimes, but I don’t even want to think about the last twenty years, or the next fifty, without you in my life.
My Twitter friends, who have taught me, supported me, laughed with me, and encouraged me through this entire process—I never would have made it without you. In particular, thanks to Dan Krokos, Sean Ferrell, Bill Cameron, Gary Corby, Steve Ulfelder, and Jeff Somers, who have talked me down off ledges, lent humor when the situation called for it (and also when it didn’t) and were some of the first people to make me realize that other writers were rooting for my success.
Not to be outdone, the unstoppable ladies Harley May, Elisabeth Black, Ali Trotta, Jen the Amazing, Linda Grimes, Patty Blount, and a host of others too numerous to count who interact with me, get excited with me, and push me forward on a daily basis. I hope you know I’m waiting anxiously for the chance to return the favor.
Last but certainly not least, to my parents and sister, who have grown many gray hairs watching me make the wrong decisions, start down wrong paths, too many times to count. I appreciate your love, your support, and your willingness to let me figure out life on my own terms more than I can ever say. I think we’re finally on the right track.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trisha Leigh is a product of the Midwest, which means it’s pop, not soda, garage sales, not tag sales, and you guys as opposed to y’all. Most of the time. She’s been writing seriously for five years now, and has published 4 young adult novels and 4 new adult novels (under her pen name Lyla Payne). Her favorite things, in no particular order, include: reading, Game of Thrones, Hershey’s kisses, reading, her dogs (Yoda and Jilly), summer, movies, reading, Jude Law, coffee, and rewatching WB series from the 90’s-00’s.
Her family is made up of farmers and/or almost rock stars from Iowa, people who are numerous, loud, full of love—the kind of people that make the world a better place. Trisha tries her best to honor them, and the lessons they’ve taught, through characters and stories—made up, of course, but true enough in their way.
Trisha is the author of The Last Year series and the Whitman University books, as well as the beginnings of two new series, The Cavy Files and Lowcountry Ghosts. She’s represented by Kathleen Rushall at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
To learn more about Trisha Leigh, please visit her at trishaleigh.com.
If you enjoy New Adult books or a good contemporary romance, please check out my pen name, Lyla Payne!
Brightest Kind of Darkness
P.T. Michelle
Nara Collins is an average sixteen-year-old, with one exception: every night she dreams the events of the following day. Due to an incident in her past, Nara avoids using her special gift to change fate…until she dreams a future she can’t ignore.
After Nara prevents a bombing at Blue Ridge High, her ability to see the future starts to fade, while people at school are suddenly being injured at an unusually high rate.
Grappling with her diminishing powers and the need to prevent another disaster, Nara meets Ethan Harris, a mysterious loner who seems to understand her better than anyone. Ethan and Nara forge an irresistible connection, but as their relationship heats up, so do her questions about his dark past.
Copyright 2011 by P.T. Michelle
All rightest reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook cannot be re-sold or given away to others. No parts of this ebook may be reproducted, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter One
For me, being surprised was like wearing my best friend’s favorite shirt, cherished for its borrowed uniqueness. Some people loved potty humor. I loved watching life’s surprises happening all around me. It was so rare that I got to experience them myself.
But after last night, I’ve decided I hate surprises.
Before I fell asleep, I’d whispered, “Can I just have one surprising day?” And four short hours later, I was zooming across an empty Walmart parking lot in my car, shoulders knotting with each spin of my wheels. “I should’ve defined ‘surprising’,” I muttered as I squealed to a stop in a parking spot. Grabbing my white-framed sunglasses, I jerked them toward my face, then slowly lowered the shades back to the dash. What was I thinking? The sun wasn’t even up yet.
Could I be wrong? I glanced at my mom’s favorite wool scarf sitting on top of my jacket in the passenger seat. I’d brought it for practical reasons, but I’d also wanted a part of her with me, as if her scarf riding shotgun meant she’d approve of my decision. How would she react if I was wrong and got arrested for reporting a false crime? Would she be shocked? Disappointed? Think I’ve lost my mind? Would she show any emotion? Or would she wait until the end of the day—after her last meeting was over—to check her messages and then come post my bail? It’d almost be worth the risk to find out.
With a heavy sigh, I cocooned myself in a layer of winter clothes. Halfway across the parking lot, sweat began to coat my skin under the thick jacket. The scratchy scarf only made it worse. All I could think about was clawing my irritated neck, but the building’s security cameras hung like gargoyle guardians nesting on the shoulders of a red and blue striped elephant. Tucking my chin into the scarf’s folds, I pulled my knit cap lower. I didn’t care if I looked like an idiot dressed like the boy from A Christmas Story in fifty-degree fall weather. Anonymity was my top priority.
Near the payphone, a blast of frigid air whisked dead leaves along the edge of the building, turning my sweat to chill bumps. Wind whistled and tunneled, pitching low and then high. “No!” brushed past my ear in a harsh, grating whisper, and the top layer of my hair charged, floating above the scarf. I froze and smacked my hair down as I scoured the area for the source. Wind and leaves battled the empty space on both sides of the building. My car sat alone in the dark lot, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched…or reminded of the past.
I have no idea how many times I’ve forced myself to stand back and just be a knowing observer. But I couldn’t today. When I stepped toward the building, an invisible weight began to crush my head and shoulders, compressing my spine. I tried to inhale calming breaths, but thick, icy moisture swept into my lungs, stealing my air.
My vision blurred and I stumbled forward, my feet heavy weights dragging across the asphalt. Falling against the building, I pressed my cheek against the cool rough bricks and wheezed. I wasn’t certain things would go right, but there was one truth I knew for sure. “I can’t ignore this,” I whispered harshly.
As the crushing sensation slowly tapered off, I sucked in lungfuls of air, my gaze glued to the building’s sharp edge. Would someone come around the corner and tell me I was wrong? I waited. A minute passed. And then another. I was running out of time. Blowing out a breath, I pushed away from the wall. At least I wouldn’t have to peel off the wad of turquoise gum covering the phone’s coin slot. This call was free.
I picked up the grungy handset and d
ialed.
“911 Operator. What’s the nature of your emergency?” an older woman’s gravelly voice shot across the line.
God, what if I got it wrong somehow? Palm sweat soaked my gloves. “I—I want to report a potential threat to Blue Ridge High School.”
“Speak up,” the operator pitched higher.
Clearing my throat, I spoke again, my words huskier. “I think someone’s going to bomb Blue Ridge High today. A student who was recently expelled.”
Typing sounded at rapid speed. “Your name?” The woman demanded.
I hung up and ran on shaky legs to my car. I hated that I didn’t know what would happen next.
***
My car screeched into the school’s back parking lot seven minutes before first bell, the smell of burned rubber my constant perfume. Mom was going to be pissed if she had to get me new tires and brakes in the same year. Sliding on my narrow-framed black and red shades, I surveyed the ordered chaos. Police cars and fire trucks surrounded Blue Ridge High, their lights blinking in a strobed rhythm of red and blue. More students seemed to be leaving than arriving.
Digging my fingers into my backpack strap, I started toward the school with a clueless, but curious expression on my face.
The loner guy from my History and Trig classes headed toward me, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. “What’s happening?” I called out.
When he didn’t respond, annoyance kicked in.
I remember the day he’d transferred in a couple weeks ago. It was the end of the day, and Lainey and I were goofing around in the hall with the soccer ball. I’d just passed the ball to Lainey when Sophia jumped in and punted it past me. Not to be outdone by Sophia, I’d gunned for the ball and looked up in time to see I was about to collide with the new guy.
Dark Roses: Eight Paranormal Romance Novels Page 56
