by Kyla Stone
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also by Kyla Stone
Willow
Gabriel
Amelia
Micah
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Rising Storm
The Last Sanctuary: Book One
Kyla Stone
Paper Moon Press
Contents
Title Page
Also by Kyla Stone
1. Willow
2. Willow
3. Gabriel
4. Amelia
5. Micah
6. Amelia
7. Willow
8. Micah
9. Gabriel
10. Amelia
11. Gabriel
12. Willow
13. Gabriel
14. Willow
15. Gabriel
16. Amelia
17. Willow
18. Micah
19. Amelia
20. Willow
21. Amelia
22. Micah
23. Willow
24. Micah
25. Gabriel
26. Micah
27. Amelia
28. Willow
29. Amelia
30. Willow
31. Micah
32. Willow
33. Gabriel
34. Willow
35. Amelia
36. Willow
37. Micah
38. Gabriel
39. Willow
40. Amelia
41. Willow
42. Amelia
43. Micah
44. Gabriel
45. Micah
46. Amelia
47. Micah
48. Willow
49. Micah
50. Willow
51. Gabriel
52. Willow
53. Amelia
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Rising Storm
Copyright © 2017 by Kyla Stone All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design by Deranged Doctor Designs
Book formatting by Vellum
First Printed in 2017
ISBN 978-1-945410-11-6
Paper Moon Press
Atlanta, Georgia
www.PaperMoonPress.com
Created with Vellum
To my Dad, for teaching me to read and write,
but more importantly, to love reading and writing.
And for always believing in me.
Also by Kyla Stone
Beneath the Skin
Before You Break
Real Solutions for Adult Acne
1
Willow
It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago, the Grand Voyager was a glittering jewel of marble and glass, a glorious, shimmering promise so real, you could hold it in your hands. It was a ship to fulfill every lavish wish and desire, to make you believe your every dream would come true.
But it was all a lie. This wasn’t a dream; it was a nightmare. And with the nightmare came the terror, the shrieking and running, the guns and the blood, the beautiful bodies falling, limp as dolls. In just a matter of minutes, the whole world had fallen to pieces.
Now there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
Terror coiled in the pit of seventeen-year-old Willow Bahaghari's stomach. Sweat beaded her forehead. The fabric of her dress clung damp and chilly against her skin.
She crouched behind the counter of a coffee bar along the corridor of Deck Ten of the Grand Voyager cruise ship. The display cases were all smashed, the glass shards littering the floor glinting wickedly. The corridor stretched ahead of her, silent and empty but for the bodies.
She strained for any sound over the crash and boom of the storm.
The voices came again. Two or three of them, from somewhere down the corridor. They were searching for survivors. And they were headed her way. She didn’t know who they were or what they wanted.
She only knew that if they found her, she was dead.
But she couldn’t die. Not yet. Her family was still out there, trapped somewhere on the ship. Her little brother, Benjie, needed her. He was alone because of her, because of what she’d done. She had to make it right. In the midst of all this chaos, no one else could save him but her. She couldn’t die. She refused to die.
Distant thunder crashed. Waves rocked the ship. The floor tilted, and she stumbled, glass fragments jabbing into her bare feet. She sucked in her breath. She had to ignore the pain, the mind-numbing fear. She had to think.
She needed a weapon. She picked up a large glass shard, lifted her dress, and wrapped a handful of fabric around the lower half, making a pathetic, nearly useless handle.
Thunder crashed again, lightning shattering the night sky through the windows on the other side of the corridor. Rain lashed the glass. The awful rat-a-tat of gunfire exploded from somewhere above her.
The voices grew louder. They'd be on her in thirty seconds, maybe less.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Hide! But there was nowhere to go. She was cornered. Trapped. There was only a mini-fridge for cold drinks and the storage cabinets.
She opened one quietly, wincing as the hinges squeaked. It was full of junk. The second one was the same. But the third cabinet beneath the sink held only an industrial gallon of soap, a bottle of all-purpose cleaner, a package of sponges, and a few folded hand towels. She might be just short enough.
Carefully, she opened the door. She shoved aside the supplies with trembling fingers and scooted inside the cabinet. She ducked her head beneath the pipes and the bowl of the sink and squeezed in.
The door wouldn't close all the way.
Damn her father’s big-boned genes. Her muscles ached in protest as she contorted herself into the smallest, tightest shape possible. The inside of the cabinet was dark and dank, the air stale. Two inches of open space still gaped between the cabinet edge and the door.
Boots crunched against glass.
She was out of time. Sweat trickled down her neck. Her hand tightened on the shard of glass, pain biting into the flesh between her thumb and forefinger.
Heavy footsteps stomped around the side of the coffee bar, heading straight toward her. A shadow fell across the narrow sliver of opened door. She glimpsed black cargo pants, a knife sheath, and a walkie-talkie strapped to a belt. She could make out the weave of his pants, the worn, threadbare corner of a cargo pocket.
The sink over her head turned on. Water rushed through the pipe pressed against her cheek. She did not move. She did not breathe.
The moment stretched, every second excruciating. He knows. He knew she was there, huddled in the cabinet. He was aiming his rifle now, a second from ripping open the door—
She clenched the glass shard. Every muscle in her body tensed. She couldn’t die here. Not like this, cowering like an animal. She hadn’t found her family. She hadn’t rescued her brother. She hadn’t made up for her sins.
She steadied her trembling hands, blinking sweat out of her eyes. Wait for it. Wait.
Whatever was coming, she’d be ready. She had no choice.
2
<
br /> Willow
Eight Days Earlier . . .
Willow should have been one of the happiest girls alive. She was surrounded by sumptuous luxury and extravagance she’d only dreamed of. But instead of being thrilled like her thirteen-year-old sister, Zia, or delighted like her little brother, Benjie, she felt only a dull emptiness.
The Grand Voyager’s magnificence almost seemed unreal compared to the scarcity and hardship she was used to. Everything was gleaming marble, sparkling crystal, and glass—glass everywhere. Glass elevators soared through the ten-story atrium. A curved grand staircase constructed completely of glass swept up to the second and third balconies. Radiant sunlight flooded through the transparent, domed ceiling, making every surface glitter like diamonds.
Her eight-year-old brother leaned over the columned marble fountain in the center of the atrium. He and Zia pushed their fingers into the flumes of water spraying out of the mouths of gold-plated mermaids.
“Can we do that? Pretty please?” Benjie pointed excitedly at the holoscreen above the Excursions Center. It advertised all the in-port activities: hover skiing, 4D snorkeling, and personal submarine adventures. An image appeared of a small boy straddling the sleek back of a modded killer whale. They were genetically modified to be dumb and docile, safe for the whole family to enjoy, according to the holo ads, at least.
“I'm sorry, son.” Willow’s mom was short, like Willow, like most of the Filipino titas, or aunties, in her family. Her dark hair was cut in a crisp, angled bob. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her tired eyes. “The prize only includes the ship itself. We won't be able to do the activities this time.”
This time. Like there would ever be another time. Willow’s family was only on this swanky ship because her mother had basically won the lottery; once a year, all the employee-of-the-month candidates got their names thrown into a hat. The one that came up this year was Marisol Bahaghari.
Willow’s mom worked her butt off for Voyager Enterprises as Associate Director of Housekeeping and sent home everything she earned. For the last five years, Willow and her siblings lived with their lola, their grandmother, in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Newark, New Jersey, only seeing their mom a few months out of the year.
“What should we do first?” Zia's exuberant voice broke into her thoughts. Zia was exuberant about everything. Her turquoise-tipped pixie haircut accentuated her heart-shaped face, her eyes huge with excitement.
Zia stared at the ship’s map hologram she'd brought up by clicking her wristband twice. “Cryotherapy in the snow room? Tapas in the revolving, glass-floor restaurant? The low-grav zone? Floating sleep pods at the Gilded Coral Spa?”
“We'll do as much as we can, I promise.” Her mom stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out her red staff wristband. “I'm going to check in with Housekeeping and make sure everything's okay.”
Willow rolled her eyes. “Aren't you supposed to be on vacation?”
“It'll just be a minute, I promise.” Her mom waved as she headed through the discreet ‘Crew and Authorized Personnel Only’ door. Zia and Benjie turned to Willow, their eager faces beaming.
Benjie grabbed her hand. “Can we go swimming, now? Please, Ate?” He only used the reference to her role as eldest sister when he really wanted something.
“Oh, all right. Let's make at least one of our dreams come true.” She let her siblings drag her through the cavernous atrium and the royal promenade, up several stairways lined with priceless works of art and through marble corridors already bustling with beautiful, sophisticated aristocrats.
Light flooded through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Every surface gleamed. The floors were polished to a high gloss, the ceilings adorned with filigreed bronze tiles and crystal chandeliers.
She caught sight of her harried reflection in the glass. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She looked as exhausted as her mom. Relax. She was supposed to be having fun. Not just fun: the time of her life. But she wasn’t.
Willow followed Zia through glass double doors that opened and closed with a quiet hiss. She shielded her eyes against the harsh sun. The teak deck seemed to go on forever, with rows and rows of floating lounge chairs arranged around a massive, lagoon-shaped hot tub and an even larger pool. On the upper deck, cabanas with filmy curtains fluttering in the breeze offered masseuses from a service bot with arms tentacled like an octopus.
Two men strode toward them with their heads bent, walking so quickly she had to grab Benjie's hand and jerk him out of the way.
“Watch where you're going,” one of the men said, glaring at her. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and furious.
Instinctively, she stepped back, a sudden unease jolting through her. “Um, sorry?”
The man scowled and kept walking. The other man didn't glance at her at all. That first guy had looked almost . . . hateful. She shivered, even though it was a hot September day.
Look!” Benjie pointed at an enormous transparent tube spiraling above them and arcing over the edge of the ship. Waves sloshed inside it as someone rode by on a waterboard. It was some futuristic combo of a lazy river, wave surfing, and an epic slide. “I'm gonna slaughter that thing!”
“Life vest first.” She pointed to a bin filled with sleek, inflatable vests.
Benjie sniffed and rubbed his nose. “No way. None of the other kids are wearing them.”
She lowered her voice. “These kids aren't like you. They're members of country clubs and join swim teams when they're four. You can’t swim.”
Benjie glowered at them. He always hated being left out. It happened a lot because of his asthma. And money. Everything was always about money.
Willow didn’t know how to swim either, but how hard could it be? She knelt in front of her brother and rested her forehead against his, like she’d done since he was a toddler scared of the dark. “I'll teach you, I promise. But until then, if you want to conquer that beast—” she pointed at the massive tube circling above them, “—you've got to wear the vest.”
“Deal!” Instantly appeased, Benjie tugged off his clothes and scampered across the deck. He wrestled on a life vest, then launched straight into the deep end of the pool, splashing everyone within reach.
A service bot picked up Benjie's discarded clothes and folded them neatly on an empty lounge chair. Several other humanoid bots straightened cushions and delivered fresh towels. They zipped between the rows of lounge chairs, carrying frilly, fruity drinks on trays.
Zia stripped down to her bright turquoise bathing suit. She was as short as Willow at barely five feet tall, but she was slender where Willow was thick. She was cursed with her father's genes—'big bones', as her mom so kindly put it.
Zia sprayed sunblock onto her brown skin. “Are you okay? You’re acting strange.”
Willow stiffened. Zia always seemed to sense her moods, even when she wished she couldn’t. “I’m fine,” she said too sharply. How could she explain that she felt guilty at enjoying this opulence, then was ashamed for feeling guilt in the first place. She should be having a blast. This, right here, was the best moment of her life. And she was ruining it. “I’m fine.”
Zia studied her, wrinkling her nose. “Are you sure?”
Even if she wanted to enjoy herself, she was stuck babysitting again, anyway. Willow pushed away a second jolt of guilt. “I’m sure. Why don’t you enjoy that crazy slide-thing with Benjie?”
Zia frowned at her but obeyed, trotting off to join Benjie. Willow sank back on the lounge chair as the gel cushion conformed to her body and shoved her cheap sunglasses down over her eyes. If she were at home right now, she’d be working her daily after-school job to help pay the bills. She juggled classwork with shifts as a groundskeeper for a landscaping company. She was short and thick, but she was strong. She trimmed hedges, pulled weeds, hacked errant branches, and lugged forty-pound bags of mulch and fertilizer with the best of them.
Metalheads could do the work, but human labor was cheaper, at leas
t in landscaping. With most service jobs disappearing to bots, this was it, unless you were some kind of millionaire who could afford college. This was life, now.
Willow had wanted to sell their winning tickets, but her mom had insisted it would displease her employers. “But we can make some glorious memories, neneng,” she had said.
Which was a load of crap. Memories couldn’t quench the desperate ache in her belly, the anxiety that wouldn't quit.
She glanced across the pool at the Tides Tapas Café, where guests ordered their food from the menu embedded in the smooth surface of the tables. Service bots delivered platters of bite-sized burgers, stuffed mushrooms, and miniature stacks of fresh fruit.
She breathed in the savory, mouthwatering aromas. Every morsel was the real deal, not that prefab crap that looked and tasted like a cardboard box. If her best friend Rihanna were here, she’d eat everything on the menu. When was the last time Willow had a real hamburger? She couldn’t remember.
Benjie dashed up. “We’re setting sail! Come watch!”
Willow sighed and allowed her brother to drag her across the deck. Her fear of heights kept her a safe distance from the glass railing. Seagulls wheeled overhead. The bay shimmered below them, the towering white hull of the Grand Voyager gleaming. Beyond the Manhattan Terminal, the glittering skyline soared into the clear blue sky.
