by M. D. Archer
Book I of The Lucan Trilogy
Lucan
M. D. Archer
Copyright © 2018 M. D. Archer. All Rights Reserved.
Lucan is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents, except those clearly in the public domain, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, names, places or incidents is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by M. D. Archer, April 2018
www.mda-author.com
Dedication
For Dad
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone who helped, inspired, and motivated me during this project.
Special thanks to my sister Lisa, my first (and tenth) reader; to Julie Sandilands, my writing buddy and entrepreneur-extraordinaire; to Trudi Kaye for inspiring me to self-publish; to Mum for proof-reading; and to my Beta readers David, Sumire, Rachel, Andrea, Jill, and Jenny. Last but not least, thank you to Raewyn's students, who provided encouragement and insightful feedback on my first draft: Alisha, Fraser, Lauren, Nathan, and Tiani.
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
For the rest of The Lucan Trilogy and other titles by M. D. Archer, visit Amazon.
Contents
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 1
I wake up feeling weird.
Today I turn nineteen, but so what. It’s hardly a milestone. I rub my eyes, encouraging my blurry surroundings to come into focus. I’m upside down, sprawled across the bed in a state of dishevelment that suggests a nocturnal wrestling match.
But this is normal.
I roll over, my inexplicably sore muscles sending little darts of complaint, and prop myself up to look around my room. Clothes take up every available surface and spill out of the laundry hamper next to the door. Books are jumbled in a disorganized mess on the bookshelf and my desk is cluttered, but again, this is normal.
So, if everything seems the same, why does it feel so different?
Finally, I shrug. The delicious aroma of bacon is wafting into my nostrils, signaling that events of interest are taking place downstairs. I inhale deeply, smiling in anticipation, until I realize this isn’t normal.
I sit upright, completely alert. It isn’t cooking bacon that I can smell; it is raw bacon, sitting on the kitchen counter, downstairs. What the hell? How could I possibly be able to smell that?
No, I shake my head. I must still be half asleep.
My phone beeps. It’s a text from Chris wishing me a happy birthday, but more exciting is that there is also a message from Piper, who I haven’t spoken to in nearly two months. Last year we wouldn’t have gone two hours without texting.
But things change after high school.
Just as I sit up, preparing to get out of bed, my bedroom door opens a few inches and a hand holding a packet of brightly colored gumballs appears. I grin. The door opens wider and Dad’s head appears.
“Happy Gumball Day.” Dad smiles as he steps inside my room. “Or are you getting too old for this?” He looks uncertain.
“Nope.” Ignoring my aching muscles, I pull myself out of bed and cross the room to hug Dad.
At age seven and three quarters, there was nothing I wanted more than a gumball machine—I saw one in a movie—and for my eighth birthday, Dad came through. He found a small one that dispensed actual gumballs for a quarter apiece, and I was the star of elementary school. Since then, Dad has bought me a birthday refill pack every year, and I do my part by managing, with willpower that is absent from all other areas of my life, to make the gumballs last all year.
“Breakfast feast downstairs?”
He holds up his phone with a rueful smile. “The boss just called.”
It’s not even 9:00 a.m.
“Why is your boss such a—”
Dad stops me a cautionary look.
“I’m sorry, Tamzin. Tomorrow? I’ll do extra everything. Oh, and I’ll give you your real present tonight.”
“I have to wait all day?”
Dad sighs but relents, a grin tugging at his mouth. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a small box. A wide smile spreads across my face as I unwrap the present. Small, beautiful, gold hoop earrings.
“They’re gorgeous. Thanks.” I slip them on straight away and admire them in the mirror, ignoring the bags under my eyes.
“You’re welcome.” He kisses me on the cheek. “I’d better go. Mom said to say Happy Birthday, and she’ll see you tonight.”
“Sure,” I say, still turning side to side in the mirror.
“Don’t forget, Tam, family dinner. Don’t go off and do something else.” Dad waves and disappears around the door.
Do something else? Like what, and with who? I gave Chris a pass for tonight—he has a big project due—and I don’t exactly have a list of people clamoring to hang out with me. The reality of my life lands in front of me with a thump. Things were so different last year. Chris and Piper had organized a surprise birthday dinner for me just before the end of senior year, with the whole group, and it had been awesome. Cut to this year, and all I’m doing is having dinner with my family.
Lame.
In the bathroom, I adjust the shower temperature so that it’s a little too cold and let the water pummel some life into me. Why do I feel so weird? I had a crappy night’s sleep—for the last couple of nights, in fact—but that doesn’t explain the creepy sensation that I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Am I just nervous about my meeting with the academic counselor today? I’m pretty sure she didn’t ask me in to give me a diligence award. They don’t take attendance, but they do notice when you miss most of your labs. But who wants to feel like an idiot on a regular basis?
Instead of getting dressed, I flop onto my bed for a few more minutes, trying to come up with reasons why I could stay home today, but finally, I wrench myself upright. I pull on the jeans that are sitting on top of my hamper and the least rumpled shirt I can find. I squirm in my jeans and tug at my shirt, wishing they fit me a little better. After pulling my hair up into a high ponytail and deciding that there is nothing I can do about my face—bags, gray skin, tired eyes—I throw my phone, notebook, and wallet into my satchel. I head downstairs, my apprehension mounting with each step.
Is it the meeting or something else?
The kitchen bears the remnants of breakfast activity: an abandoned cereal bowl, the morning newspaper with its innards scattered across the table, and an empty pot of coffee. It is such a normal
scene that it jars in contrast to the weirdness I’m feeling. I hover in the doorway, trying to work out why I feel so strange, and an immense feeling rises, peaks, and washes over me, making me giddy. It’s like I’m on the verge of something. With a sudden urgency, I want to be outside. I need to be walking somewhere, doing something.
As soon as I leave the house, I begin to feel more normal. The regular motion of my feet pounding the concrete somehow soothes me, and the buzz of energy coming from Marshall Street, the busy thoroughfare that leads downtown, makes me feel a little more lifelike. Even on a weekday, when most people should already be at work, it’s a hive of activity. I flick my eyes to where the Lakeview Hills rise up behind the city, today seeming to loom larger than normal. I have a strong urge to hike up to the summit. But I can’t, I’ll be late. Plus, I would probably have a stroke. No, what I need is caffeine.
A couple of minutes later, I exit the corner store, sipping from a supersized energy drink, when a piercing shriek cuts through the air. I turn. In lurid, surround-sound, slow-motion detail, a baby stroller, jostled free of its braking mechanism, is rolling down the incline from outside a bookstore about ten feet away, gathering momentum as it careens across the sidewalk. I blink. A silver Suzuki jeep is barreling up the road, directly toward the baby stroller, which is now hurtling over the curb. Time has slowed down, but I exist in a bubble of normal speed. I dash forward, reach out, grab the handle, and yank it toward me as the jeep’s front bumper screeches past, missing the baby stroller by inches. The wail of the baby is audible over the horns and the panicked breathing of its mother, who is already at my arm.
“Oh my God, oh my God.”
Late thirties, hair in an immaculate side braid, her makeup is unable to hide the unnatural shade of gray she has turned.
“How did you do that? How did you move so fast? I thought… I thought….”
Her breath is coming in short, sharp gasps.
“You should sit down… or something.”
A woman strides out of the coffee shop behind us. “I’m a nurse,” she barks. We lock eyes, she gives me a dismissive once-over, and then takes charge, taking the woman’s pulse and checking her eyes. My shoulders sag. She knows what she’s doing.
She bustles the woman back into the coffee shop. “Let’s get you some tea.”
The small crowd surrounding us drifts off, resuming their morning activities. I remain where I am, my heart still racing
Finally, I take a step and then another. Adrenaline still coursing through my body, I start to smile. So what if that bossy lady took over, it was me who saved that kid.
And it was kind of awesome.
INSIDE THE LECTURE hall, I settle into my seat, impressed with myself. I am here at my anatomy lecture, on time, pen in hand, notebook in front of me, doing my best to concentrate.
“Today we will go through all the muscles of the hand,” the professor intones as she paces the front of the hall.
Already I’m bored. I widen then squint my eyes, but it doesn’t help me focus. I try to concentrate, but the words are meaningless and just blur together. How am I going to remember all these tiny, specific details about these minutely different pieces of human anatomy?
And who cares?
I look around the lecture hall to see if anyone else shares my sentiment. There’s got to be at least another couple of people who aren’t into this. Other people who are agnostic about life. We could be kindred spirits, 90s slackers, moping around being apathetic but looking cool while we do it, drinking caffeinated beverages out of obscenely large soda cups. But all I see around me are bright, alert eyes and keen faces. Slouching back in my seat, I retrieve the second can of energy drink I bought on the way here and chug back two long mouthfuls, letting out a silent burp. Fortified, I push myself up straighter and renew my attention toward the front of the lecture hall.
“There are two broad classes of hand muscles: the extrinsic, which control the large crude movements like gripping; and the intrinsic, which are located inside the hand and are responsible for smaller, more refined functions.”
Nope, still boring. It usually is, but today it’s so much worse. The fatigue that I woke up with is returning, increasing at an alarming rate, threatening to engulf me completely. This is beyond boredom; there must be something wrong with me. Maybe I’m getting the flu? I finish the energy drink in one extended gulp. The girl to my right shoots me a pointed look and goes back to beavering away on her laptop, her disapproval obvious with every angry jab at the keyboard. What is she even typing? Isn’t it all in this course book they gave us? I flick through the red spiral-bound harbinger of doom but then close it and slump further down. I’m so tired, I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe a nap will help. I’ll just close my eyes for a second.
“Ow!”
A sharp nudge to the ribs, delivered by the know-it-all next to me.
“You were snoring,” she hisses.
I look around. Several smirking faces confirm that my little snooze did not go unnoticed.
Embarrassing.
I check the time—fifteen minutes to go.
THE ACADEMIC COUNSELOR greets me with a smile, lets me get comfortable, and then drops the bombshell.
“You’re failing, Tamzin.”
I knew it wasn’t going to be good, but failing? Happy birthday to me.
She tilts her head, waiting for me to say something. Curly brown hair and glasses frame intelligent eyes and a kind expression. Should I be honest? Should I confess that I don’t think I’m cut out for this?
“Tell me, Tamzin, why are you here? What do you want out of college?”
“Um…”
“Why study anatomy, for instance?” she presses.
I’m not doing great in any of my classes, but I think anatomy might be the front runner for failing.
“I thought… uh… I was thinking I could… become a paramedic, or something.”
“Because?”
Because when I was nine, I’d been dared to climb to the top of the tallest pine tree on our street by the local miniature thug, Daniel Foster. I accepted the challenge—how could I not? And I did it, I got all the way to the top. But then, I fell and broke my arm. By the time emergency services arrived, I was in a lot of pain and really scared, but they—a young, heavyset woman and an older, wiry man—had been so calm, so confident, and so reassuring that I had known everything was going to be okay. They were my heroes.
“I want to help people, I guess,” I mumble.
“Well. An admirable endeavor, Tamzin, but you are going to have to work a lot harder. Subjects like anatomy, you can’t wing them. You have to study to learn the details of the human body. There’s no shortcut.”
I jiggle my knee. But what if I can’t do that, what if I can’t learn those things?
“So, if this is what you want, you are going to have to raise your performance. By a substantial amount. You’re going to have to do well in your next test as well as in the final.”
“When is the next test?”
I probably should know that.
“April 6th,” she says. An eyebrow raise confirms that yes, I should have known that—it’s less than a week away. “It’s all in your course book.” She sighs. “You need to keep on top of this, Tamzin. You can get extra tutoring, if you think you need it, but either way, you have to knuckle down.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You may instead decide that a different approach is better?”
I’m finding it difficult to meet her eyes, let alone answer her questions.
“It’s up to you what you do, but you do need to take some sort of action to change your current trajectory.”
I study my hands. I agree, but how? What should I be doing?
“Are you all right, Tamzin?”
Worried.
I look up in surprise. It was like she said that out loud, but she didn’t, did she? I must be projecting my thoughts onto her.
“Uh, yeah. Just tired, uh…�
�� I stand, nearly knocking over the chair as I move backward toward the door.
Counseling?
Just one word, but again, it appeared in my head, unbidden, like I was somehow accessing her thoughts.
But that isn’t possible.
“Sorry… gotta run.” I grab wildly for the doorknob, my hand finally connecting with metal, and wrench it open.
“Tamzin?”
Just outside her office, I nearly collide with a girl with an armful of books clutched to her chest. A sense of anxiety, stress—panic almost—slams into me, making me reel.
What the hell. Is that me or her?
“Sorry,” she says. Wide eyes, trembling chin.
I need help.
I stare at her, frozen.
I can’t do this.
Neither can I.
I stumble out of the administration building and over to the curb. As I wait to cross the road, I pull the course book out of my bag and flick through the syllabus. Can I drink enough caffeine to get through the material? Can I stop worrying about why I’m so tired and why everything is so weird, and just focus on studying for a few days? I run through the required readings and the material covered in the upcoming test and stop in shock. I have eleven chapters to get through.
Who am I kidding?
AFTER WASTING AN hour window shopping for clothes that I don’t even want, I wander up a few blocks, heading in the general direction of home. The train is right there, but being outside, walking, is the only thing that feels good at the moment.
At the corner of Smith and Jackson, I pause. I could go to the library and start going over those chapters to increase my chances of passing, even just a little bit. No. I’m too tired to concentrate right now, and it’s my birthday, so I turn right to walk toward the waterfront. There’s a cluster of shops and restaurants here, always busy with tourists, downtown business people, and students who have enough money to eat off campus. For example, through the window of Willow in front of me, Piper, Jade, and Tina, my three closest girlfriends from high school, are right there, eating lunch. A painful, sinking, awful realization sweeps through me. They are having lunch, on my actual birthday, and they didn’t invite me.
