A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  “His women. As in his mother, the first love of his life, and his wife, the greatest love of his life.”

  “Ah. Good man,” I said with a contented sigh.

  Killian snuffled and turned over, flopping his noodle arm around me. “Good man,” he echoed in a sleepy little voice, and then added his contented sigh to mine.

  I could feel the smile on Jordan’s lips when he dipped his head to kiss me. “Happy man,” he whispered, and then he kissed me again.

  Author's Note

  Dear Readers,

  This story was difficult to write on many fronts. As a lover of (almost) all things Ren Faire—having never quite gotten over the thrill of playing dress-up—I was hesitant to use my beloved Faire as the sordid backdrop for this story, lest it come across as a key player in Savannah’s downfall…because it wasn’t. It was simply the stage on which the story played out. In the same vein, as a firm believer in Christ, I was also hesitant to write about a pastor’s home-schooled daughter who runs away rather than face the condemnation of church and family, lest the cracks and weaknesses in the foundation of her Christian home be misconstrued as validation that faith is empty…because it isn’t. It is, in fact, her faith in those around her that is restored upon her homecoming. What I wanted was to show that no matter where a person’s journey takes them, it is people—not place—who bring to the page the good and bad, the beautiful and the ugly, the light and the dark. This is the story of a prodigal, a child lost and then found, and the often tangled journey back to the place we each call home, where love truly is unconditional, not circumstantial, and where a person’s worth is not gauged by accomplishments or lack thereof, but by the value they place on others.

  Another difficult task was to unravel some of the darker elements of domestic abuse in a way that exposed the horror of it while still maintaining a thread of hope and redemption. These themes—both in this book and in Book 2 of The Fallout Series, A Light in the Dark—are considered “triggers” by many, and I want to take a moment to address them. Savannah starts out as the underage victim of a sex crime and in her desperate attempts to “right a wrong,” she became a victim of domestic abuse and brainwashing, trapped by the person who claimed to be her provider and protector. During my research, I stumbled across an article in the Women’s section of The Huffington Post called 8 Steps that Explain Why She Doesn’t Leave, written by Crystal Sanchez, a self-proclaimed “Domestic Abuse Thriver.” (I love, love, love that she doesn’t call herself a survivor, but a thriver, one who has taken steps to be empowered by her experiences!) Regardless of your experience with domestic abuse, this is an eye-opening article on what goes on in these homes. There are many excellent resources available that provide information, support, and help to people like Savannah, and I’ve listed just a few of them for you: (Article link)

  • Safe Horizon (http://SafeHorizon.org), where domestic violence is defined as “…a pattern of behavior used to establish power and control over another person through fear and intimidation, often including the threat or use of violence.” 1-800-621-HOPE (4673)

  • The National Coalition against Domestic Violence (http://ncadv.org) states that “The vision of NCADV is to create a culture where domestic violence is not tolerated, and where society empowers victims and survivors, and holds abusers accountable.” It is their mission to be “…the catalyst for changing society to have zero tolerance for domestic violence.” The NCADV is an excellent hub for information, resource lists, advocates for change in public policy, and more. This site also has an absolutely brilliant safety feature: A bright red “Safety Exit” button on screen at all times that will shut down the site instantly and will eliminate all traces of it in the search history, so no back button will bring it up either. Like I said, BRILLIANT.

  • The National Domestic Hotline (http://TheHotline.org): According to their research, “On average, 24 people per minute are victims of rape, physical violence or stalking by an intimate partner in the United States—more than 12 million women and men over the course of a year.” 1-800-799-7233

  • Another site that has me standing up and cheering is one I mention at the end of A Long Way Home, called Polished Man (https://polishedman.com). It’s a movement that essentially comes at domestic violence proactively by challenging men to stop being perpetrators of violence in their homes, particularly against children, rather than focusing on victims getting help retroactively. “90% of all sexual violence committed against children is perpetrated by men. The majority of this violence happens behind closed doors and is committed by people they know.” According to the website, “Being a Polished Man means challenging violent behavior and language, both locally and globally.” The membership badge? One painted fingernail to represent the 1 in 5 children who are victims of domestic violence. Awesome.

  It is my hope that the stories told in this series enlighten and empower you to pursue redemption and to offer it to others as well. I love to hear from readers, so don’t hesitate to contact me: Becky@BeckyDoughty.com.

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  About the Author

  Becky Doughty is the author of the best-selling Elderberry Croft series and the voice behind BraveHeart Audiobooks. She writes Women’s Fiction with strong elements of romance, as well as Young Adult and New Adult Fiction. Becky’s favorite people are edge-dwellers, those who live on that fine line where hope and despair meet, where love is the only answer and grace becomes truly amazing.

  Becky is married to her champion of more than 25 years. They have three children, two of whom are grown and starting families of their own, and they all live within a few miles of each other in Southern California. They share their lives with too many animals, a large vegetable garden, and a strange underground concrete room they’re certain was built for dark and sinister purposes…

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  If you enjoyed A Long Way Home, we recommend you check out November Rain by Shannon Thompson. Read an exclusive excerpt here.

  Execution day was the best day.

  While most fought, screamed, and cried, I welcomed our only escape. Death would be the easiest part of my life. The eight children I shared my expiration date with might understand that soon, but I was different from the beginning. A bad blood didn’t live to be seventeen by pure luck.

  The police suspected I was in a flock, and they were right, not one of those fake ones made up of four kids who were inevitably caught either. A real one. The Southern Flock. But I didn’t break no matter what. Now, I would die for it. It was for the better. Robert already believed I was dead anyway.

  I tried not to think of the others, but their faces crept through my memory when I stared at the kids around me. Catelyn. Melody. Steven. Ami. Huey. Briauna. Justan. Timmy. Jake. Even Niki. The fact that my flock would continue brought me the peace I needed today. Or tonight.

  By the murky blue flooding through the jail cells, my best guess said it was seven—AM or PM—but I couldn’t be sure without a clock. I wouldn’t even know what hour I would die. The government didn’t think we were deserving of time.

  “Alan. Frank. Jesse. Marcus.”

  The boys went first. The girls were next.

  “Anne. Harriet. Linda. Rosa. Serena.”

  My sigh felt like my last breath, but I stood up. The tapping is what forced me to raise my eyes. Through the metal bars, a woman stared at me. Her black hair poked out beneath her hat. She would probably be the last person I ever saw alive. When she asked me if I was Serena, I nodded.

  I didn’t try to run when she cranked open the gate. I was done running. When she latched onto the chain holding my hands together, the metal cut into my wrists. I bled, but it didn’t matter. The woman would escort
me to the electric chair and it would all be over. There were no drugs involved. Only pain. Only suffering.

  The woman yanked me forward, slow but sturdy. The rest of the girls were ahead of us, and the way my cop wobbled, I could see why. I only worried about seeing the others ahead of me die first. I envied Alan, the bad blood scheduled first for execution, and I wondered if he was already dead.

  “You need to listen to me.” The woman’s whisper was harsh. “You listen to me good, yah hear?”

  “Wha—”

  Her glare silenced me. “Don’t talk.” She rattled my chain to bury her drawl, but she had touched me. It wasn’t a mistake. I understood now. My powers forced me to. I could sense bad bloods whenever we touched, and she was one.

  “Those kids are dying today, but you’re not.” When she spoke, her decaying teeth jutted out. “You’re getting out of here, and you’re going to live.”

  Before I could ask how, the woman’s feet glued to the floor. In the depths of her russet stare, determination flickered. It was the look someone had when she knew she would die.

  Everything changed in that moment. The officer ahead of us turned around, and he called out, “Charlotte.” Other than her name, the only sound I heard was the snap of my chain and the single word spilling out of her mouth.

  “Run.”

  And I did.

  Old Man Gregory scanned my items without studying my arrangement of over-the-counter medicines and bandages. The owner didn’t care who I was. He only cared about two things—money and booze—and that’s why I returned to his convenience store.

  Acquaintances weren’t necessary. Medicine was.

  When the door opened, the entrance bell rang. “How yah doing, Gregory?” The newcomer wobbled until he found an equally wobbly seat at the countertop, a.k.a. the bar. I could smell the whiskey on him. Definitely a regular. “I’d sure appreciate it if you turned the news on.”

  Gregory swung around, and the television lit up at his touch. Two faces appeared—a woman and a man—with a solid line separating them. Another political debate was on.

  “What could Henderson be thinking?” the male anchor shouted into his clipped-on microphone.

  My stomach twisted. The upcoming election had Vendona on the verge of a revolt—a violent revolt—and my kind was the center of it all. Alec Henderson was the first government official to be pro-blood, and he had a real chance at becoming president. Joshua Logan II was his opponent. He wanted to establish required identification testing to expose bad bloods for earlier execution. At this point, Vendona was torn. Even I couldn’t tell who would win, but the election would be over within the month. For bad bloods, it was life or death. It was merely politics for everyone else.

  “This isn’t the Civil Rights Movement,” the man continued. “This isn’t even the Separation Movement.” The war demonizing bad bloods—something Vendona called a movement—happened twenty years before I was born.

  “But that is exactly what Henderson is trying to do,” the woman argued. “He’s beginning a movement. He’s creating a movement.”

  “He’s abolishing the Separation Movement, something elected by the people and for the people,” the man corrected. “No one asked him to change it.”

  “His voters are asking for change.”

  “These are bad bloods we’re talking about,” the man interrupted. “Violent, incompetent creatures—”

  “These are children we’re talking about,” she returned his interruption with one of her own.

  “Children that contribute to over half of our growing crime rate, including the murder of innocent civilians,” he retorted. “Do you think the government can change that?” His biased beliefs never changed. “Even if we save them, the two remaining flocks will kill each other.” The Northern Flock and the Southern Flock were notorious for hating one another. “How can we trust a species that hates itself?”

  “Maybe they wouldn’t have to kill if they weren’t forced onto our streets.”

  “And maybe you can write that on all of our graves.”

  “Money.”

  I forced myself to turn away from the debate to meet eyes with Gregory. His palm stuck out, nearly touching my chest. “Money,” he repeated.

  I laid the cash in his hand before I shoved the items into my backpack. When I slung the bag over my shoulder, I ignored the heated ramblings. Other than being disgusted, I didn’t have the luxury to listen. Vi was waiting at Calhoun’s house, and being late wasn’t an option.

  I pushed open the exit door, and humid air slammed into me. It was later than I thought. The sun was gone, but a murky glow stretched over the crowded buildings, evidence of the Highlands. The early evening was the only time the outskirts could see the murky light from ground level, but that didn’t mean we forgot its existence. The richest part of Vendona was iridescent, separated from the outskirts by one large gate, but tonight, it was brighter than ever. It pulsated against the purple sky. Even then, the sight didn’t hold my attention for long.

  The warning lights lining our streets were flashing. We had three settings: yellow, orange, and red. Ever since the pre-election votes had been polled, the lights had been yellow, a minor warning, but they were orange tonight.

  I leaned back into Gregory’s store. “Why’s the light orange?”

  The owner glanced over, but the customer was the one to point at the television. The debate was replaced by a reporter’s ramblings, “All are advised to find immediate shelter.” Behind her, Western Vendona’s largest blood camp loomed. “Escaping from here only moments ago, the bad blood is believed to have fled through the western part of town.”

  “Escaped?” Gregory cursed. “That’s a first.”

  The reporter continued to rant out scripted directions, “I repeat, all are advised to find shelter and report any suspicious activity immediately.” A phone number scrolled below her. “This is considered a high-risk situation. Red lights have been turned on, and curfew is in effect.”

  Blake. The youngest in my flock flashed in front of me. Michele. Vi. Adam. Tessa. Peyton. Floyd. It could be any of them.

  I had to go.

  “The light’s red,” Gregory shouted at my back, but it was too late.

  I ran.

  The muscles in my legs burned, and I weaved through the panicking crowd with ease. Voices flew by, and faces blurred together, but no one paid any attention to me. They were too busy fleeing. Rushing through the splitting crowd was almost too easy. I didn’t have superhuman speed—that would be Adam’s specialty—but I felt like I did. I would get to the bad blood before the police if it killed me. That was the duty of a leader.

  I was only a block away from the depths of the western part of town, but a block was enough time to figure out where they would be. Any bad blood would head straight for Shadow Alley, the only street Vendona’s government avoided. It was a thin road, cut in half by an old fence, and remarkable shadows masked the worst crimes. It connected the condensed northern part of town with the southern countryside, and it blocked out where the Western Flock’s house once stood. It was notorious for crime and even more notorious for being a bad blood itinerant. No human would go near it, not even a cop, and that hesitation would be what the escapee would rely on.

  I had to be right.

  When I saw Mulberry Street, I prepared to turn. It led to Shadow Alley, and I was all too familiar with the paved walkway. I grabbed the side of the brick building to help me spin around the corner, but my dexterity failed. I crashed straight into a body—a person smaller than me—and I bounced back to stay on my feet. The other person fell. As their body smacked against the concrete, a high-pitched yelp escaped their lips. I would’ve kept running if they hadn’t leapt back up and attempted to hit me.

  My adrenaline froze.

  Only a bad blood would hit someone, but this person wasn’t Blake. This person wasn’t Michele or Tessa, but she was a girl, a teenage girl with wild eyes. Blood dripped down the side of her face, and her h
air was browned with soot. Because of her sunken cheekbones, she resembled a dirty skeleton more than a living being. She wasn’t a member of my flock, but she was definitely blooded, and she was in trouble.

  “Let me help you—” I began, but she dodged to the left.

  I cut her off.

  She stepped forward, leaning too far to the right in a limp. “Get out of my way.”

  I didn’t respond. The police would catch her if she kept running, and I wouldn’t lose another blood to Vendona’s massacre.

  “I will kill you,” she promised, baring her teeth.

  “I know.”

  She paused at my words, and her hesitation was the only weapon I had.

  Before she could react, I stepped forward and raised my arm. When she ducked, I swung my leg out and my foot collided with her injured leg. She hit the pavement with her head.

  I cringed but bent down to haul her up. She was a rag doll in my arms—an angry rag doll—but a rag doll, nonetheless.

  She screamed as she reeled back to hit me, but I dragged her into Shadow Alley and pushed her against the bricks. “Shut up,” I ordered, kneeling down to put my lips near her ear, “and you might live through this.”

  Her eyes darkened, but her screaming subsided. I turned my back to her, counting on her pain to prevent her from attacking me, and I made a decision. I rushed back to the main square through the neighboring alley and grabbed my hair as I stumbled into the receding crowd.

  “That way,” I shouted, pointing my finger in the other direction. A cop appeared as if he had been waiting for someone to scream out of terror. “That way. She went that way.”

  He didn’t question my integrity. He ran where I pointed, and other cops followed him like the obedient officers they were. I had to fight the smile forming on my lips. The girl they were after was only a few feet away.