Redlisted

by Sara Beaman

  REDLISTED

  Book One: Mnemosyne's Head

  Sara Beaman

  Text copyright and cover design © 2012 Sara K Beaman

  Cover photographs © 2012 Melissa Richard

  Model: Caroline Witherspoon

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is dedicated to Keith, Christie-Sue, Blakely, my family, all of my beta readers, and most of all Daniel Ingraham, who helped me form my scattered thoughts into a system of magic and a universe.

  1- End of the Night Shift

  2 - A Dream of Waking

  3 - In Between

  4 - A Dream of Memory

  5 - The Rest of My Life

  6 - A Dream of Blood

  7 - Mnemosyne’s Head

  8 - A Dream of Dying

  9 - Rag Doll

  10 - A Dream of Insomnia

  11 - Alterations

  12 - A Dream of Flight

  13 - Passport

  14 - A Dream of Dreaming

  15 - Feeding

  16 - A Dream of Longing

  17 - Keep Quiet

  18 - A Dream of Fascination

  19 - Nondisclosure

  20 - A Dream of Paperwork

  21 - Eternity Under the Stars

  22 - A Dream of Corridors

  23 - Exsanguinated

  24 - A Dream of Revelation

  25 - 1893

  26 - A Dream of Amnesia

  27 - Red Hook

  28 - The Enclave

  29 - Initiation

  30 - The Call

  1

  End of the Night Shift

  {Anonymous}

  I wake up to a bang as the electronic lock on the door releases.

  I roll out of bed, walk across the cold linoleum and splash some water on my face at the little sink. I pull on the outfit they’ve provided for tonight: a silk blouse, royal purple, under a gray wool pantsuit. It’s fussy and the pants are too tight. I wish they’d let us wear skirts now and then.

  I sit down in front of the vanity mirror and take a look at her face. My new face. I guess it’s not really new anymore—the scars are gone—but it’s still fresh enough to be jarring. The skin around my eyes is still tender; it hurts when I put on my eyeliner. I’d skip it but I don’t have the option. Mirabel wears her eyeliner thick and black.

  I pull my auburn hair back into the requisite ponytail tied tight at the nape of my neck. I sling the purse over my shoulder, take the smartphone out of its charger and check tonight’s schedule. Aside from breakfast, I’ve only got one Program appointment tonight: voice training. Five hours of it. Once I’m done with that I’ll come back here and sleep. I slip on the pair of black leather slingbacks by the door and step out into the windowless hallway.

  Breakfast is only two levels down from here. I could take the stairs, but a vague memory of losing my balance in the stairwell scratches at the back of my mind. I can’t remember what happened, nor how. I guess I haven’t gotten used to walking in heels this high quite yet; it’d be easy to slip and fall.

  I decide to take the elevator instead. I press the down button and wait with folded hands. A chime sounds; the doors slide open. I step inside and press the B3 button. The doors close.

  I glance upwards at the mirrored ceiling as I descend, up into Mirabel’s cruel hazel gaze. I want to look away, but I don’t dare. Her eyes hold me hostage. The real Mirabel might be out of the country, yet here she is even still, looming over me, mocking me, making me feel scared and small.

  The chime sounds again; the doors slide open. I break away from the reflection and step out into the fluorescent glare of the third sub-basement corridor. I turn right, towards the commissary for the girls in the Program.

  My heels click against the concrete, resonating through the long hallway in a purposeful series, metered like the tick of a clock. I check my watch, bite into the chapped skin on my lower lip, think about going home and sleeping.

  A door slams shut somewhere ahead of me. Muffled snippets of conversation echo from not far down a side corridor, somewhere near the stairwell. It sounds like an argument. One of the voices is low and male. That’s not right. The only people allowed down here at this time of night are the other girls. But they’re drawing closer, whoever they are.

  Panic sets in, then the urge to flee. I turn back towards the elevator and try to sneak away, but every footstep is like a hit on a snare drum, amplified by the bare walls and floor.

  “Mirabel?” a man calls behind me.

  I stop and turn back to face him.

  Before I can glimpse his face, he fires. The bullet hits me hard in the sternum, sends me reeling backwards. An instant later, I’m staring at the ceiling, watching the fluorescent lights fade into darkness.

  Moments before I black out, I hear a woman’s voice:

  “That’s not her.”

  ///

  I awaken bleary-eyed to pain and the smell of blood. I’m in a dimly-lit room, lying in bed under sheets that smell like mothballs. A chair creaks, scrapes against the floor. I look over, blinking, rubbing at my eyes.

  Slowly a stranger’s face materializes from the fog, angular and pale. He has close-cropped hair the color of black coffee; his eyes are the color of a winter sky. He wears wire-rimmed glasses.

  “You’re awake,” he says. “Thank God.”

  I groan.

  He picks up a glass full of dark liquid from the bedside table. “You need to drink this. It’ll help with the pain.”

  I try to sit up, but the pain restrains me. I wince.

  He slides a hand underneath the thin pillow, lifts my head slowly and places the glass against my lips. Inside is blood. I can tell without looking, just from the smell of it. I open my mouth, he tips the glass, and it flows down the back of my throat.

  My eyes snap open. Wait. How does he know I need it? Who is he?

  He pulls the glass away and places my head back down on the bed. “My name is Adam. I’m a relative of Mirabel’s.”

  What does he mean by that?

  “You were working for her, weren’t you? Down in her main office in Atlanta?

  I stare up at the bare wooden planks of the ceiling, taking shallow, shuddering breaths. Where am I? What happened to me?

  “Things will come back to you,” he says.

  I try to sit up again, sending a white-hot throb of pain through my entire body.

  “Lie still,” Adam says. “Try to relax.”

  I got shot. I don’t remember anything aside from that. I look down at my chest, at the open entry wound. Jesus Christ! I could have died! Shouldn’t I be in a hospital?

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  Have I been kidnapped?

  “You should get some more rest.”

  I ball my hands into fists, grip the sheets and prepare for my next attempt to stand. I need to get up, to get out of here.

  Adam places his hand, cold and dry, against my forehead. “It’s for your own good.”

  Suddenly my eyes feel unbearably heavy. My vision blurs.

  ///

  I wake up without remembering being asleep.

  I’m in the little bedroom, alone. A thin ray of light slices through the room from the skinny space between the drapes. My skin prickles where the light crosses my arms.

  The pain isn’t gone, not entirely, but when I look down at my ribcage, I see that the site of the wound has closed up. A scar remains in its place, a web of white lines embossed on the space between my collarbones. In the center lies a perfect circle of raw pink flesh barely covered by skin.

  I’m starving.

  I sit up without too much trouble. I turn on the bedside table, then place my bare feet one at a time onto the cold wooden floor. I catch my own reflection in a mirror on a
dresser across the room. My hair is tangled, my eyeliner smudged. The outfit is ruined; my blouse is caked with dried blood and my jacket is missing.

  I have to find something to eat. Maybe Adam can help. He said he was working with Mirabel. And he helped me before, I guess, although maybe he kidnapped me? But he has blood, and I need blood.

  “Adam?” I try to call out, but the word won’t come—just a weak, breathy wheeze. I try again—“Adam?”

  Nothing comes. I can imagine the sound with perfect clarity, but my mouth can’t form the syllables. My tongue feels swollen. The back of my throat prickles. I need water. Or blood. I need something.

  Help, I imagine saying as my voice fails a third time.

  I stumble out into the hallway. Past the deserted living room is a kitchen, through an archway to my right. Food. Yes.

  I throw the refrigerator door open only to find it empty. One by one, I throw open all the cabinets. Nothing in any of them, not until the last cabinet, where I find a few cans of soup. I rifle through the drawers in search of a can opener; finding one, I crank open a can of tomato soup and drink it cold, spilling some onto my chin.

  It’s not enough.

  I crank open a second can, chicken and wild rice, and drink the broth, scooping the chunks into my mouth with my fingers.

  Not enough. Not right.

  I grab a carving knife from the drawer and open the door leading to the yard.

  It’s cold outside, with a chill breeze cutting through the air, and it’s dismally sunny. My ears ring and my blood pulses against my scalp. As I step out into the full sun, the horizon shifts, begins to spin. I fall to my knees, retching. My skin burns.

  It takes me a few minutes to stand up again. I still feel dizzy and sick, but it doesn’t matter. I need to find blood. That fact is non-negotiable. Inescapable. A reflex within me spells it out in no uncertain terms. I know it as deeply as I know my need for oxygen. I need to find blood or I’m going to die.

  There’s a car in the gravel driveway, a sedan. An umbrella rests on the floor behind the driver’s seat. I try the door—it opens, thank God—and I grab the umbrella, opening it and hiding in its shade. The ringing in my ears stops and the pulsing in my head slowly begins to subside.

  Beyond the gravel driveway is a dirt road. Surrounding the house in all directions are a limitless number of trees, leaves the color of fire. I walk down the driveway, sharp rocks poking at my bare feet.

  Where am I going? How am I going to find blood? I’m not a killer or a hunter. I can’t exactly remember, but from the way I’m dressed and from what Adam said, I’m apparently some desk worker from Atlanta. And here I am, out in these nameless woods, carrying an umbrella and wielding a kitchen utensil.

  I take a deep breath, choking down my doubt. It’d be best to look for a small animal to kill, if only because I doubt I could summon the strength to overpower a human. Just the idea of it makes me want to vomit again. But what other choice do I have?

  I cross the dirt road, head into the woods, and start hiking upward. The incline gets steeper as I press on; the tree cover thickens. The sunlight eventually dims enough, filtered through the canopy, that I no longer need the umbrella. I pull it shut. The noise sends a squirrel running for cover. Oh God—I’m an idiot. I must be driving away all the wildlife with all the noise I’m making.

  I slump down into a pile of leaves at the base of a dead tree. A large part of me is scared to stop moving, but I’m exhausted and it hurts to breathe and I’m not making any progress anyway.

  I push down into the leaves. The pile seems to be deep enough for me to bury myself in if I curl up tight. The musty odor of the leaves fills my nostrils as I crush them under my body weight. I cover myself as best I can, and then I wait.

  Hours pass. From time to time I can feel the legs of insects as they march across my bare skin. I force myself to remain still and awake, to watch for prey.

  What on earth happened to me? The longer I think about it, the more confused I become. I remember those few minutes before I got shot—waking up, heading downstairs, and then bang. But everything before that is a blur. I don’t remember what I was doing in Atlanta. I don’t remember anything about this Mirabel. I don’t even remember my name.

  Come on. Think back. What happened before that evening?

  I don’t know.

  A branch snaps. I inhale sharply, looking up.

  I see a deer. A young one, with spots still on its coat. It’s probably too big for me to kill it, but I can’t wait any longer. I have to try.

  Hold still, little deer, I plead silently as I rise to my feet, leaves rustling around me.

  The deer spots me right away, but it remains frozen in place.

  That’s it. Don’t move. I inch closer.

  It locks eyes with me, watching my advance, but it still doesn’t move.

  As if in a dream, I walk on tiptoe to stand by the deer’s side, all the while willing it to keep still, and all the while it obeys. I can hear its heart beating faster and faster as I draw my weapon towards its neck. I put the point of the knife to its throat, then press down, then press down hard, harder than I ever thought I’d need to until blood starts to flow, and then I place my lips against its fur, swallowing eagerly.

  Yes—no—

  After just a mouthful I realize that the deer’s blood is no more satiating than the cold tomato soup. It’s like water—like foul, hot, sticky, salty water.

  I pull my face away from the deer’s neck and spit the blood out. The deer breaks out of its trance and bolts into the trees. My legs lose the last of their strength and buckle underneath me.

  I sleep, and I dream.

  2

  A Dream of Waking

  {Adam Fletcher}

  I woke up with blood in my eyes, blood on my tongue, naked, lying prone on cold marble. Alone.

  I scrubbed at my eyes, stood, and tried to gain my bearings. I was at the center of a room so large the walls receded into shadow, invisible. The moon cast a dim spotlight through a domed window in the ceiling; everything else was pitch black.

  As my eyes began to adjust to the darkness, windows emerged along one half of the room, and in front of them a table. On its top, in its center, was a wine glass full of a deep red fluid. As I approached the bank of windows, my reflection grew clearer, all angles and hollows, hovering like a ghost among the dim silhouettes of the trees outside. The skin on my throat was rubbed raw, and in the crook of my right elbow were tracks left from a needle.

  I brought the rim of the wine glass to my nose, recoiled. Blood. It smelled stale, salty.

  A door creaked open above and behind me. A man emerged from the shadows of a balcony overhead and walked forward to stand along the railing. I looked up, squinting, but I couldn’t make out his face.

  “Adam Fletcher.” He spoke with an accent I couldn’t place. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I felt anticipation emanating from him in waves—anticipation and something like hope.

  I placed the glass back on the table. “Who are you?” My voice was hoarse. It made me sound afraid, which I wasn’t.

  “My name is Julian Radcliffe. Your anxiety is normal, Dr. Fletcher, but rest assured, you are quite safe here.”

  “Where are we?”

  “We are at my home. Your new home. One of my estates, near Savannah, Georgia. You are now my ward, and the youngest scion of Mnemosyne. You have been initiated into the oldest of the sanguine houses. It is a great honor.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve resurrected you from the dead,” he said.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  He shrugged.

  I brought the first two fingers of my right hand to my neck. My pulse point was still.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I repeated.

  “I hope to make this transition as painless as possible for you,” Julian said. “My assistant will be in shortly with some of your things.”

  He lingered by the balcony,
staring down at me. I imagined he was waiting for me to speak, but I had nothing to say. After a long moment, he nodded, turned, and retreated into the darkness.

  As I waited, my vision slowly returned. Walls materialized opposite the windows, along with three doors. After several minutes I heard a knock on the door to my left.

  “Dr. Fletcher?” A female voice. “I’m going to hand you some clothing so you can get dressed.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I’m opening the door now...”

  It opened and closed behind me. I turned to find a neatly-folded stack of garments. A pair of glasses sat at their center, a pair of dress shoes rested beneath them. I picked up the glasses, put them on. They were mine. All of it was mine, I discovered as I dressed myself.

  “May I come in?” the girl asked as I finished buttoning up my shirt.

  I didn’t respond.

  A young woman opened the door and peered into the room. She approached me slowly, her posture stiff, then stopped several paces from me. The moonlight reflected off the waves of her black hair.

  “My name is Aya,” she said. “I’m Master Radcliffe’s assistant. He’s asked me to provide you with anything you might need.”

  “Can I use the phone?”

  “Who do you wish to call?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It’s not that, it’s just... I’m afraid you can’t call your fiancée. Assuming that’s who you had in mind.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well...”

  I felt a shudder of nauseous unease. An image of a wrecked car flashed into my mind’s eye.

  “Dr. Fletcher, she’s...”

  Dead.

  I closed my eyes, shook my head. I told myself to stop being morbid. “Why can’t I call her?”

  “Oh God. Okay. Dr. Fletcher, I’m so sorry, but...” She opened and closed her mouth several times. More faceless images: a wreck, a hospital room, a morgue.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she.”

  “God, I’m so sorry. She died in a car crash. It was about a week ago. You were in the ICU for a little while, in a coma, but then you also, well, you died.”