Betrayed by Blood: The Shelton Family Legacy : 1

by L. A. McGinnis

  Two days ago, I’d had a thriving PI business, an office downtown, and was cautiously optimistic for my future.

  Now it looked like I’d be starting all over again. At least I could keep my first name.

  The year I was born, a whopping twelve percent of all girls were named Miranda, in honor of Miranda “Mandy” Van Wertz, an up-and-coming starlet everyone thought would become the next Marilyn Monroe. Poor Miranda’s career was shorter than an insta-celebrity’s. She was consigned to the dustbin of history, but the rest of us were stuck with the name for our entire lives.

  A hundred years before all the Mirandas were born, The Surge happened, changing our world forever. The lucky majority remained as they were, normal, human, and flawed. The rest didn’t. Magic manifests in Elementals just before the onset of puberty. Most of us know, via careful government tracking, we’re predisposed to the gene. But there are anomalies.

  Take me, for example. One minute I’m minding my own business, dodging my nosy nanny and texting my bestie about hanging out after school, the next? I’m two blocks away, and everything is on fire. Definitely not a good way to start the day.

  That evening my parents decided I was a liability. My father chose his new bodyguard to do the deed, which was the only reason I survived.

  He hesitated. I didn’t.

  Or rather, my magic didn’t. I fell apart completely, in a freaked-out mess of tears, pee and snot that resulted in a flaming arm of fire reaching out and incinerating him while he debated where to shoot me. From the way the gun was pointed, I’d say it was somewhere between the head and the heart. Fortunately, he was smart enough to pick an out of the way place to kill me, down by the Hudson. I left his smoking carcass on the bank with the rest of the trash.

  Funny thing.

  When you’re ten, and your parents just paid to have you killed, you’d think that crisis would be the top thing on your mind. Nope. I had fire magic. Standing there in my pee-soaked jeans, my high-end coat, and two hundred dollars in my pocket, I roared to the sky.

  I was a dragon.

  Or at least, I could incinerate my enemies like one.

  While you might think I was a bit cold hearted for a kid, my parents had done their job, in one respect. Emotion had been drilled out of me, since I’d been trained from childhood to never show it. To never trust anyone outside of the family—obviously this lesson should have extended to within the family—and to never, ever show anyone you’re afraid.

  I’d done pretty well starting a new life at the tender age of ten. I could certainly do the same at twenty-seven. One thing was for sure, while my trust issues were a detriment in my personal life, they were a benefit to staying alive.

  Jamming my hands into my pockets, I prayed to whatever god was listening no one knew Lincoln was involved. We’d always been careful to keep our connection quiet, but something told me we were up against an adversary we’d never anticipated.

  I ducked beneath a fence and cut across the school parking lot, checking over my shoulder for any skulking shadows in my wake. I was only a couple blocks from Lincoln’s, but the closer I got, the more freaked out I became.

  The Sheltons had tracked me down in less than a day. Turned Derek into swiss cheese, and they’d do the same to me, maybe Lincoln too.

  I wouldn’t even argue with him this time, I resolved. I’d just go.

  It didn’t matter where, even to New York, if that’s what he wanted.

  Interspersed with my escape plan were questions about what was on the disc, as well as the deeper implications. What was Shelton Industries doing with the harvested magic? Because no matter what else was going on, magic from fifty thousand people a year amounted to a shitload of power.

  Magic was something you couldn’t buy.

  You were either born with it, or you weren’t. In a perfect world, Elementals would have been revered, coddled as the special people they were. But these were humans and humans hate anything they don’t understand. Which means if you’re part of that thirty percent of Elementals, the world considers you unlucky, at best. A threat, at worst.

  Most Elementals ended up in one of three places. Eight percent went insane, while a whopping fourteen percent were targeted by the military and rounded up for “training,” a euphemism that a few ballsy reporters tried to debunk and were never seen again. Four percent killed themselves or were killed by family trying to cover up the fact they were related to an Elemental. Because the only thing worse than being an Elemental yourself, was having one in your family.

  Which left a little over five percent alive.

  Keeping their heads down. Hoping for the best.

  It was how I survived Seattle, honing my magic under Lincoln’s tutelage. With his help, I hid my powers, built a thriving PI business, and became a social introvert in the process.

  Here I was, contemplating starting over again.

  Cursing the Sheltons and everything they stood for, I jimmied the lock on Lincoln’s back gate, crept across his dark, formal garden, and went in through the basement fruit cellar, the hinges letting out a low groan of protest.

  I found him in his library, book on his lap, a dreamy expression on his face.

  And a bullet hole in his forehead.

  Bennett stepped through the door behind me, and I hardly heard him mirandize me, or felt the cuffs he clipped around my wrists.

  “A murderer and an unregistered Elemental. Hard to say which is worse.”

  Bennett’s gloating finally penetrated the fog I was mired in, yet even his glib insult didn’t make me rise to the bait. Lincoln was gone. The closest thing I’d ever had to a real father, and this was my fault. Because I’d been stupid and reckless and short sighted.

  “First Derek, and now the philanthropist. You’re looking at a life sentence, McHale.”

  “I didn’t kill…”

  “Got an anonymous call and was running surveillance on Derek’s shithole. Imagine my surprise when I saw you pull up in Lincoln Amherst’s fancy ride. Been waiting for you to show up here, just so I could take you down.”

  “I didn’t kill either of them,” I whispered, not able to take my eyes off of Lincoln.

  “Doesn’t hardly matter. Unregistered Elementals don’t have any rights. Looks like you’re heading to Devilton, and I’m collecting my reward. Can practically smell that new-car leather, can’t you?”

  The cuffs dug into my wrists as Bennett dragged me away from Lincoln, down the hall, outside. The detective’s hand was wrapped so tightly around my upper arm, he was cutting off the circulation, and my feet kept tripping over themselves on the way to the car. Despite the mantra my brain was repeating—this cannot possibly be happening right now—there was one image I couldn’t get out of my head.

  Lincoln with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Bennett’s car swam into view, his shitty Crown Vic looking more like a prison cell with every step I took. Once he got me inside the precinct, I knew I’d never see the outside again. Not if he had anything to do with it, and right now, he held all the cards.

  “I get it, you know. You killing Derek, especially since the two of you moved in the same circles. Bad blood, he sold you out, and all that.” Bennett steered me toward the back door. “But Lincoln Amherst? I never pegged you for knocking off rich assholes. Did someone pay you to take him out? Lots of powerful people in this city, and I’m sure pretty boy stepped on plenty of toes over the years.”

  Shut up. I wanted to scream. Don’t you say another word about Lincoln.

  “I’ll make a mint off of you,” Bennett gloated softly, his nails digging in. “Even though the scan came up empty, you’re worth five thousand, minimum, if I play my cards right. Maybe more, with the murder charges tacked on. I’m probably looking at a promotion too. Taking a dangerous criminal off the streets, and all that.”

  I tried to deny his accusations, but nothing about me was working right now. From my mouth to my feet to my brain, everything was on slow mo. Bennett open
ed the back door, swinging it open, his hold on my arm relaxing.

  I heard they tranquilized Elementals in prison.

  To mute their powers. To keep them under control.

  Once he took me into custody, once I passed booking, that’s what they’d do to me. Numb me down, like I was right now. Except it would be forever, and I’d never access my powers again.

  Panic had me pulling away, and his fingernails dug grooves in my skin as I slipped out of his grasp. “You will stop, McHale, right now.” He went for his weapon, pointed it in my face. “Or I swear to God, I’ll blow a hole in your skull too.”

  With his threat, the entire gun—bullets and all—turned into a puddle of molten steel and lead, the metal coating his hands. His screams echoed off the sides of Lincoln’s beautiful mausoleum as he tried to peel the red-hot metal from his flesh.

  Normally, the sight would have sickened me. Now, it only urged me to move faster.

  “You… you bitch…” Bennett wheezed between his guttural screams. “I’ll… kill… you.”

  “Not today, motherfucker.” Using my magic, I picked the lock on my cuffs, then chose one of the square edging stones of the driveway. Hefting it over my head, I brought it down on Bennett’s, and the screaming stopped.

  “Goddamn it,” I cursed, watching the gate for the reinforcements that were sure to come sweeping through. When the drive remained empty, I raced to the house. Under my bed was the go-bag Lincoln insisted I always have ready. I’d always thought his paranoia was overstated, but right now? I wished he was alive, so I could kiss him.

  Grabbing the bag, I also snagged the stack of bills off Lincoln’s side table. Next stop was the library. Lincoln was still in his favorite chair, Chaucer open on his lap, that small, perfectly round hole taunting me. I dipped a hand into his pocket and came up with the disc. I leaned in and kissed his papery cheek. “Goodbye, Lincoln. I’m so sorry for… everything.”

  By the time I reached the bottom of the steps, a shadowy figure blocked the exit. Gathering my magic, I prepared to incinerate whoever it was. “You stop right there, missy. It’s only me.” The jingle of keys preceded Mac’s overhand throw, and I caught the car fob with my left hand. He winged a hat over next, Seattle Seahawks, and nodded to the back door.

  “Take the BMW. It’s untitled. I’ll buy you as much time as I can, once reinforcements arrive.” The chauffeur stepped into the light, a grim look on his lined face. “Go on, get. If I let them catch you, Lincoln’ll have my head.”

  Since I didn’t have time to explain that was so not going to happen, I only waved down the hall “He’s in the study, he’s…” I choked back a sob, wiping away my tears on my shoulder.

  “You need to move. Head north, toward the park, they’ll be watching the main roads. You’d best reach the city limits in fifteen minutes, or they’ll cordon you inside. There’s water and food on the front seat, my gun’s in the glove box.” In the time it took him to give me directions, I’d reached the door. I turned to ask Mac why he was helping me, but he cut me off with a growl.

  “Miranda. If you drag this out any longer, you won’t make it to New York.”

  “I’m not… that’s not where I’m going.”

  “Yes, you are,” Mac told me, moving in, his gaze intense. “Lincoln wants you there, and I’m making sure you get off on the right foot. You head to New York and find Dawson.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  He shoved a folded piece of paper in my hand. “Some PI you are, if I have to draw you a damn map,” the old man scoffed. “There’s an address. Now git, and stop wasting time.”

  The garage was old-fashioned, with big, heavy wood doors and no automatic opener. Mostly because Lincoln wanted to preserve the charm of the carriage house. But the doors were a bitch, and my back cracked as I heaved the thing up. The BMW was a vintage model, from before I was even born. But like everything in Lincoln’s world, Mac kept it in pristine condition. The thing started right up, the engine purring like a baby, and I pulled out of the driveway, careful not to run over Bennett’s prone form sprawled in the gravel.

  Maybe I should have killed him. But I wasn’t like Knight, and I didn’t kill people because they pissed me off. Only by accident, which, now that I thought about it, wasn’t much better.

  Anyhow, for good or bad, I left the cop alive.

  His hands useless, but his memories, unfortunately, completely intact. I glanced at the folded paper on the passenger seat. One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going anywhere near New York City. Of all the stupid moves I could make right now, that would be the stupidest. There was a good reason I was still alive, and it was because I made smart decisions. Most of the time, anyway.

  This I knew: New York was absolutely the worst place in the world for me if I wanted to survive.

  Mac was right, the BMW didn’t attract any attention. Plus, it got great gas mileage. Always a bonus when you’re on the run with limited resources.

  I’d never been the emotional, sentimental sort. Empathy had been bred out of my lineage, long before I was born. As far as my father was concerned, emotions equaled weakness. The one thing you never did in front of my father was show vulnerability. He’d strike like a lion on a gazelle. I hated being the gazelle.

  Lincoln wasn’t like that at all. Yet, from the day Lincoln picked me up—a hungry, dirty mess—I’d fought him. Not outright, but in subtle, petty ways. I suppose it was my way of lashing out an unfair world.

  Not that he’d seemed to mind. No, he’d fed me and clothed me and educated me. Honed my innate skills by teaching me how to hide in plain sight, how to outthink any opponent, how to perfect my control of magic, something I still struggled with, apparently. It amused him when I insisted I’d become a private investigator, mostly because it flew in the face of his entire career of fleecing the rich.

  Instead of standing in my way, he’d made a few introductions, helped me falsify my credentials so I could get my license, set me up in an office, and hadn’t said another word about it.

  I’d never even thanked him.

  I spent the three-day drive to the east coast crying my eyes out and scoping out potential places to lose myself in. Places Bennett would never look. Places nobody would ever look.

  Which is why I was as surprised as anyone when somewhere between Cleveland and Pittsburgh I pulled out Mac’s note and re-read it.

  Dawson Hall—894 Nostrand Ave, Brooklyn NY—718-533-9942

  Dawson was not an encouraging name for the person who was my only hope. A stranger, an unknown entity, a suicide mission if I’d ever heard of one.

  But guilt is a funny thing. It works on you, like the cold you keep ignoring until you end up in bed with a temperature and bottles of antibiotics on your bed table. Lincoln never asked me for anything. He’d patiently watched me fumble my way through life, course correcting me every so often, usually with aplomb and a cup of Earl Grey. While I’d gained from him over the years, it was hard to say what he’d gotten in return. No, I’d been a pain in the ass since the day I’d arrived, and it seemed, to me at least, I’d done a bang-up job of continuing that streak.

  Cleveland flashed by, then Pittsburgh, then Scranton.

  I drove until Brooklyn was only an hour south, straight down two-eighty, but I kept heading north, curiosity urging me along on this fool’s mission. There was something I had to see with my own eyes first.

  Once I did, then I’d decide if I’d contact Dawson.

  The property the Shelton’s had donated for the Devilton Maximum Containment Facility was actually in Connecticut. Only two thousand acres, or one fifth, lay in the great state of New York. It took the work of multiple municipalities, a presidential decree, and endless lobbying to create this prison for magical peoples.

  Besides surveilling potential relocation prospects, I’d spent most of the drive watching podcasts—some of them peppered with actual footage—of the founding of Devilton. It was equal parts horrifying and fascinating.

&nb
sp; Fascinating—the can-do attitude of people motivated by fear.

  Horrifying—the person most instrumental in establishing Devilton was none other than Sophia Page Shelton.

  Scion of the illustrious Page family of Burbank, California, she was the grease to the slow, squeaky wheels of government bureaucracy. She’d forced the initial bill through Congress, urging that the oppression of a few was better for the many. To ensure her vision was attained, she donated land for the complex. Within weeks, two-hundred-year-old oaks were razed to the ground, endangered owls displaced, streets were built, utilities went in, and Devilton sprang up almost overnight.

  With a plethora of government-funded loans, along with the age-old concept of rehabilitation through incarceration heavily promoted by Sophia, the complex took shape. Before it was even fully complete, Unregs were being dumped into the facility by the busload, transferred from human maximum security prison systems into the new, even higher maximum security one required for Elementals.

  According to one report, the prison took in almost twenty thousand prisoners per year. When the facility moved into its final stage of complete autonomy, it was heralded as a success by all. With full military presence and DNA biometric zones extending out from the borders for three hundred feet, it was inescapable and impenetrable. Anyone trying to escape was vaporized, and the laser system was keyed to DNA coding.

  A magical suppression system costing billions formed an invisible dome over the facility. While inmates still had their powers, if they tried to so much as call them up, the system shut them down, organs and all. I fast forwarded through a few shots of smoking puddles of goo that used to be human beings.

  The place had sniper towers, motion-activated lasers, a targeting system that turned you into jello, and more guards than I could count. Plus, the prisoners were color coded according to their powers, which made identification a snap.