Songbird (A Sinclair Story #1) (22 page)

“I am your watcher,
miqueriona
. Tell me, what is the name you are called here?”

The words were thick, his voice rusty
and unused. With the combination of unfamiliar accent and gravelly voice, I
barely registered the question. Instead, I stood there, mouth hanging open. A
sudden and unexpected burst of emotion was wreaking havoc with my central
nervous system. I had never heard anything as beautiful as that accent. It was
lilting, somewhere between speaking and singing, and was old fashioned, like
his clothing. It soothed as it flowed down the alley like a river of warm
honey.

Any normal day I would think I’d just
experienced some type of mild psychotic episode. And, yes, I did say normal
day. I considered his strangely phrased question.

“My name is Abby, so that’s what I’m
called here, and everywhere else.” I paused for a moment. “What’s a
micwa rena
?” The wording, so beautiful
in his accent, sounded odd and disjointed from me.

I waited patiently. Well, pretty
patiently. My hands were not on my hips yet, and my foot had only tapped twice.

Then he dived at me.

It was so fast I wouldn’t have believed
it if I hadn’t been looking directly at him. My obsession with his voice had
relaxed my innate self-preservation. I’d let my guard down and now it was too
late. Standing next to me, he was huge, towering over my five-foot ten-inch
frame. He had my right arm again, gently this time. Don’t ask me how that
happened. My movements were in slow motion compared to his. He flipped over my
wrist, and we stared at the diamond-shaped mark, just visible in the dim
lighting. Curved around the small of my wrist, the smooth purple mark looked
larger than usual.

“
Miqueriona
,
my little one. Have you ever wondered why you have this mark?”

Abigail,
get the hell out of there.

I wasn’t sure if that was my inner voice
or an outside force issuing direction.
But
something was telling me to ignore the inviting warmth and ...
well
... get the hell out of there.

So what did I do?

Stared up into his piercing blue eyes
and continued the conversation. I’m a slow learner.

“I know why I have this mark. It’s a
birth mark.” That may have come out like I was speaking to a two-year-old.

The man smiled. His teeth were straight,
white and perfect. Not typical of many street people. He was definitely keeping
some secrets.

 
“Who am I?
Not important.” He continued, and I had to admit it, I was in love with his
accent. “What do I want? Much more important. But right now there is no time to
explain.”

Between the randomness of the
conversation and his accent, I was struggling to understand.

“But you are the most important of all,
young Aribella. Now is not the time for questions. Danger lurks in the
darkness. I will locate you again. And as difficult as you will find this, try
to be patient. Your time is coming.”

I opened my mouth to stall him; he
couldn’t leave yet. But he never let me speak. Changing tactics, I gripped his
jacket. My hands tangled in the extra cloth along the sleeves. The material was
unusual; it looked rough and coarse, but in my hands felt as smooth as silk.

“And stop roaming the streets. It is too
dangerous for you.
Salutia, miqueriona
.”

Then he tipped his head and, escaping my
grip, was gone.

More than annoyed, I took off after him,
following his path onto the street, but it was deserted.

Impossible!

I’d just met the older, grumpier
superman, because no one could disappear that quickly. Breathing, I winced as
my ribs pulsed hot sharp jabs at me. If I didn’t stop falling down, my body was
going to go on strike and refuse all movement. I glanced at my battered old
watch. Crap! It was after eight; I was going to miss last class. The matron was
sure to kill me this time. No idea why people worry about the danger on the
streets; they should live in my house.

I took off along the path at a
reasonably fast pace. I was confused, even more than usual. He called me
Aribella and
miquw awara
something or
other. The first one was a name, for sure, and the second definitely another
language. My heart raced. I needed to find him again. I wanted to look now, but
he was right: the dark was hunting-time; the predators emerged. Tomorrow, I
decided, would be much safer.

I was passing familiar streets; I was
almost home. Though, trust me, it was missing a few of the homely essentials.
The cold stone building where I grew up was Compound 23. One of the dozens of
hidden dwellings where children were stashed. I’d been dumped on this one’s
doorstep. Figuratively speaking. The under-eighteen compounds are single sex
and secluded. The training grounds for future rebels.

Lucy, my best friend, lived there with
me. She helped me smack down a couple of bullies when we were three and we’d
been inseparable ever since.

 
While keeping a steady pace, I had to remain
alert to dodge the random array of trash in my path. Downtown New York was just
rubble now. I hadn’t seen her in the prime of her life, but I imagined she was
magnificent.

Pausing before the front gates, I
glanced around to determine I was alone. Crazy vines covered the outside of
what looked like an abandoned building. But there was a minute high-tech
security panel hidden in the wall. I pressed my palm against the scanner before
entering the password and finishing with voice authentication. All of this
security: barbed wire fences, video surveillance – and still girls disappeared.

The human-trafficking movement had
gained strength over the years. We lived in constant fear of ending up in that
life.

The gates opened and I slunk inside. The
landscape within the estate was barren. The barriers which were designed to
protect cast an ominous prison feeling. Old photos that hung in the hallway
depicted the manor surrounded by lush gardens, but all that was left now was
scuffed dead grass and some scattered leaves. Suffice to say, it offered
protection but no warmth. Opening the large front door, I stepped inside.

“Where have you been, Abigail Swish?
Class has started and I see you aren’t in it.”

I jumped at the sound of the cold high
voice behind me. Spinning around, I hesitated to deliver a smart-ass reply.
Standing, hands on her bony hips, was Patricia Olden, head of Compound 23. Her
black hair was short and slicked back, framing her sharp features. She was
forty-five years old, one of the youngest leaders among the rebels. Her joys in
life included being a controlling bit... witch ... no, I was right the first
time – bitch. On top of that, her loathing of teenagers was legendary. This was
my mother figure, hence why I ran in the ganglands.

She continued speaking, arrogance and
derision dripping from every syllable, “I don’t care if you tattoo yourself,
get a face full of piercings and join the Gangers, but if I have to see your face
under my roof, I expect to receive my full cash payments. You will make it in
time for every single class.”

 
“Since I’m tattoo and piercing free,” I
glanced at my watch, “and classes have only just started, I’ll head that way
now.”

The resistance planned to take back the
city by breeding the strongest rebels. It was a long-term plan. Very long-term.

Education was deemed to be of utmost
importance. Future rebels were trained in both academics and combat. They paid
the compounds per class attendance, so it was priority one around here. It was
also why junior compounds were single sex. Less distraction.

Marching over, Olden grabbed me roughly,
her bony fingers pinching my arm. She dragged me across the hall and we ended
up in our main classroom. Using my free arm, I attempted to protect my injured
ribs. Breathing was becoming somewhat painful.

The teacher paused. She was
resistance-employed, around sixty years old, but it had been a hard sixty
years. As Lucy would say, ‘the lady has city miles on her’. The pain dulled to
an angry throb as Olden released me.

 
“Mrs Crabbe, note Abigail Swish is present for
this class.”

The teacher glanced at her watch before
nodding. “A little too close, Patricia. I’ll let it slide today, but have your
girls here on time in future.”

As she shuffled off to open her
attendance book, Olden rounded on me.

“You will make every class from now
until you’re eighteen. You have irritated me since the day you arrived. It’s a
bad habit that will not serve you well on the streets.”

 
“I
can imagine.” I said drily. “Seeing as I was one when I arrived, must have been
all the dirty diapers.”

Ignoring me, she continued, her voice
dropping dramatically. “You’re eighteen soon, Abigail. No one will be around to
protect you then. You’ll be on those damn streets you love so much.” Her thin
lips curved slightly, a cruel smile. “You have no idea what awaits you.”

Da dum dum, wasn’t she dramatic tonight.
With one month till my eighteenth, Lucy and I had been trying to figure out
what to do. Most made their way to an adult rebel group. Junior compound
leaders were supposed to direct you. And that was my dilemma – Olden was not
trustworthy.

Throughout the
room, girls were studiously reading their books, hoping her attention wouldn’t
turn toward them. Not Lucy, though. She sat near the back of the room in her
usual spot, glaring daggers in my direction. Luckily, Olden appeared to be done
for the day. Turning to leave, she was out the door in record time, like she
was afraid if she spent too much time with us she’d catch something. In my
opinion her absence was the most enjoyable aspect.

Threading through the room, I made my
way toward my desk. I dropped into the chair, ungracefully, of course,
painfully jarring my side. Ignoring this, I faced the front. The teacher
continued the lesson in her tedious tone. In ten years I’d never had an
interesting teacher; I was beginning to think they were myths, like unicorns
and comfortable high heels.

Movement to my right caught my
attention. Lucy Laurell, best friend, still glaring. Her gorgeous, doll-like
features all screwed up in annoyance. Big blue eyes narrowed. Major PMS mode,
if you ask me. Lucy was tiny, barely five-foot, and angelic with
shoulder-length wavy blond hair, big blue eyes and a delicate heart-shaped
face. But the delicate facade covered a core of steel and determination.
Something I knew first hand.

When we were six she’d forced me to
perform a blood bond. She’d decided this was the number one requirement of
sisterhood. I hated the sight of blood, often throwing up or, in extreme cases,
fainting. But somehow, despite her size, she held me down and hacked away. The
painful memory will always be with me, along with a crooked scar along my left
palm. Lucy was no surgeon.

“Where did you disappear to, Abigail?”
Her low voice sounded calm but I wasn’t fooled.

“I was unexpectedly delayed, Luce, but
I’ll tell you about it later.”

She’d been in a martial arts class when
I’d left for my jog. I’d planned on it just being a quick one. Shaking her head
in exasperation, she turned back to face the front.

I tried to pay attention, but the
constant droning was sleep-inducing. Right now we were in urban landscape
skills. Module three includes camouflage, identifying and containing traps and
some chemical warfare. Important stuff. If only they’d splash out on a teacher
that had real life experience or at minimum an actual interest in the subject.
I’d been outside the gates more than Mrs Crabbe. If Lucy wasn’t such a good
student I wouldn’t have passed a class. I rested my head on my hand and stared
aimlessly toward the front. It was going to be a long hour.

After dinner, Chrissie, a lanky fifteen-year-old
with masses of thick brunette waves, cornered me in the hallway. Living up to
her Goth persona, she was dressed entirely in black.

“Where were you today, Abby?”

We sat on the bottom ledge of the large
wooden staircase, just down the hall from the dining room.

“Went for a jog outside the compound.”

It was unusual to spend time chatting
with Chrissie, she hated small talk.

She fidgeted a little. “You were gone
for a long time. What’s it like out there?”

I shrugged. “It’s fine most of the time,
although I’ve had a few scary moments.”

A calculating look crossed her face. “Not
this week, Olden’s here, but next time she’s away ... um ... can I come?”

My eyes widened.

No one ever wanted to go outside the
gates. I couldn’t even get Lucy to run with me. Chrissie was too young to be
allowed out on her own; we’d have to sneak.

“Uh, sure. If you really want to.” I
wasn’t thrilled to have the responsibility of another person out there. But I
was curious and I’d hate to think she’d brave the streets on her own.

Nodding, Chrissie jumped to her feet. “I
would very much like to see what’s happening outside the gates. Let me know.”

I nodded as she walked off.

That
was strange.

I made my way upstairs to get ready for
bed. As an added bonus the delay resulted in an empty third-floor bathroom. The
room held an array of toilets, sinks and shower stalls, and with twenty girls
currently residing it was rarely unoccupied. I took my time brushing my teeth
and washing my face. We have strict water rations here, two-minute showers and
drop-pit toilets.

Finally clean, I straightened to meet my
own green eyes reflected back at me.

As a child I’d been painfully shy,
hating any attention. Their unique color – almost the jewel tones of emerald
green – and large oval shape assured I received plenty of stares. But now I no
longer cared about blending in. I was just grateful I didn’t have the freckles
usually accompanying red hair and fair skin.

Although my hair was another anomaly. It
fell in curls, not quite ringlets except those shorter tendrils framing my
face, to my mid back and it wasn’t a standard golden red; instead it was a deep
blood red with undertones of black. It was unusual enough that the girls
speculated I’d somehow managed to procure hair dye. An item that’s been
non-existent for many years.

I gave my expression one last grimace,
my full, unnaturally red lips thinning, before I turned to leave the room.

I made my way down the hall to the room
I shared with Lucy. She was sprawled across my bed, wearing her favorite purple
flannel pyjamas. A thick novel lay open in front of her. Her attention never
wavered as I stretched out next to her. It took a few minutes before she
flicked a page and spoke.

“Are you actually gracing me with your
presence, Abigail? To what do I owe such an honour?”

I smirked. “Honestly, Luce, I just felt
a need to give something back. You know, to those lesser.”

She raised an eyebrow, flicking across
to the next page. “You are going the right way to end up on my list, Abigail.”

My smirk fell; Lucy’s list was not a
place you wanted to be. The last person who got on her bad side ended up with
their hair glued to a school desk.

“Sorry, Luce, I was staring at myself in
the training mirrors and my butt looked huge. I had no choice; I had to get out
for a run.”

Shaking her head, she sighed. “As if
your tall lanky butt would ever look big. Try being five foot, Abbs. I look at
a picture of a donut and it attaches to my thighs.”

I laughed. Lucy was curvy in all the
right places, without an ounce of fat anywhere else.

“Did you have to mention donuts?” My mouth
watered. I was eight the last time we had their sugary goodness. But there was
no way to forget.

We’d had canned beans and an
unidentified rodent stew for dinner. And we had learned to never expect junk or
fresh food; they’re the rarest of all.

Reaching, I attempted my nightly routine
of taming my curls into a braid. Lucy took pity on me, helping out when it was
too painful. After she finished, I relaxed back into my pillows.

“So what happened today? I’m assuming
you didn’t plan on being out until the middle of the night, worrying your blood
sister to death.” Lucy could lay on the guilt with the best of them.

“You were in self defence. You know how
boring I find the basic classes. I can’t even believe we still have to attend
them.”

“They seem to think we’ll forget
everything if we don’t attend absolutely every class.” Lucy shook her head.
“And don’t diverge from the topic. What happened?”

I skimmed over my day. Most of it was
unimportant.

Except the encounter in the alley.

It was foremost in my mind. I spent the
most amount of time describing every little nuance.

Lucy shook her head, confusion warring
with humor and fear.

“Who are you, Abigail? You jump from one
dangerous situation to another and yet somehow escape unscathed. I’m afraid
that one day your luck will run out.” She glared at me. “If you die, I’m going
to find you, bring you back, only to kill you again. Understand?”

“Understood, psycho!”

She patted my head.

Ignoring her condescension, I continued.
“I need to go back and find him. I need answers. The curiosity is killing me.”

I hadn’t planned on telling her – she
was a worrier – but keeping secrets is not my strong suit.

She nailed me with her ‘look’. I froze.

“We should consider ourselves lucky that
you escaped today without losing any body parts. He said he was your watcher?
Do you really want to chase down weird alley stalkers?”

“I can’t stop thinking about how he made
me feel.”

She shook her head. “I swear worrying
about you is giving me gray hair.”

I wanted to reassure her that everything
would be fine, but we live with zero guarantees.

“I’m eighteen in a month and, as Olden
so kindly pointed out, onto the streets we go. It’s not exactly my dream to
join a resistance group; I don’t want to be a foot soldier in this pointless
war.”

Lucy nodded, unease plying her pixie
features.

“I feel restless, Abbs. I’m getting no
sleep and wrinkles, I think.” Her worry was clear. “My thoughts are that we
should get out of New York. There’s no future for us here. We have nothing to
lose by checking to see if it’s this bad everywhere.”

I shook my head in frustration. “I know
I say this every day, but what the hell is wrong with people? War is so
short-sighted. They are destroying the very world they have to live in.”

“Yep, people are stupid. That we established
long ago.”

“Word.” I shook my head. “And stupid’s
an understatement. Not nearly strong enough to describe this idiocy. Slow,
dim-witted, dense, moronic ...” I trailed off and Lucy picked it up.

“Brainless, thick, dumb-ass.”

I laughed out loud. “I think you nailed
it. They take dumb-ass-ness to an entirely new level.”

A wave of exhaustion flowed over me.
“You’re right. New York is just too dangerous. If only we had family to go to.”

Lucy lay back against the pillows, her
expression grim and her tone had far less bounce than usual. “Well, my parents
are dead. Car bomb saw to that. And I guess if no one has come forward for you
after eighteen years then yours are either dead or somewhere far from here.”

It was incomprehensible to me that my parents
were dead. I knew they were out there somewhere.

I shrugged, wincing as the movement
tugged on my ribs. “We’ve never relied on anyone else before. Plus we’re smart
enough to figure this out. Surely.”

Lucy laughed and, reaching over,
fist-pumped me. “Smarter than the average rebel.”

I yawned loudly, barely keeping my eyes
open.

Lucy saved my ribs the painful effort by
switching off the main light for me. She dived into her bed, whilst I pulled
back my covers and crawled under. There was a real chill in the air. A little
more effort to insulate these old buildings would be much appreciated.

“Night.” I yawned again.

“Night, Aribella.”

I groaned. “Seriously, not you too! Was
that the only thing you took from today?”

She laughed. “Aribella suits you.”

“Go to sleep, Lucy Laurell.”

“Sure, use my full name. Totally scary.”

“I still think we need middle names, you
know, for dramatic effect.”

Lucy laughed. “We’re abandoned teens,
Abbs, we can’t afford middle names.” She dropped her bottom lip. Overdramatic.

I snorted with laughter. “Word.”

She let a few chuckles escape. “The
other day I was trying to remember when we started using ‘word’ as an
acknowledgment.”

I paused for a moment. “You know, I have
no idea either, but we can’t give it up now, the memories. Remember that day we
answered every one of Olden’s questions with ‘word’?”

Snorting laughter sounded from Lucy.
“Totally worth the week of scrubbing floors.”

Smiling, I switched off the bedside
lamp. Darkness flooded the room. It felt as if sleep claimed me instantly, and
there I was, in my dream world. It had taken a few years for me to realize how
unusual it was to have the exact same dream – every week – for as long as I
could remember.

Dream-me started her adventure in an
immense forest. Ancient gnarled trees and dense overgrown green foliage spanned
as far as the eye could see.

As usual, I found myself wandering
aimlessly through the peaceful expanse. Waiting for them to find me. The woman
arrived first, stepping out of the vast tree-line to stand before me. She was
beautiful – tall with straight black hair that hung almost to her waist. She
looked to be in her early thirties, but her eyes held the weight from years of
experience.

She radiated intoxicating warmth.
Generally we stood there, simply staring. I soaked up the feeling for as long
as I could, and, just as I was expecting her to move on, something changed. A
sense of urgency filtered through the forest. Clutching my hand, she pulled me
closer. Leaning in, she spoke.

“We love you.” Unlike the usual dream
fuzziness, the words were soft but clear. “Find the blue stone.”

Then she was gone.

Reaching out, I fought to keep the
warmth, but my hands clutched empty air. Sorrow flooded through me; I’d lost
something vital.

At that point, a distraction stepped
through the forest – which had turned strangely misty – capturing my full
attention. My stupid heart galloped away in my chest.

He
isn’t real.
I repeated over and over.

He was astonishingly perfect, and,
unlike the woman had only started appearing a few years ago, I had long reached
the conclusion that he was too amazing to exist anywhere but in dreamland.
Broad-shouldered and tall – well more like giant – he had messy dark hair that
fell around sculpted features. My favorite part – his eyes. Surrounded by thick
sooty lashes they were a deep rich brown and when they focused on me everything
else faded away.

We stared, the moment powerful. Energy
hummed in the short distance between us. I wanted to move even closer, but
something held me back. His lips turned up in a quizzical smile, and he was the
one to close the distance. His large hands engulfed my face on either side.

Leaning down from his great height, he
rested his forehead against mine. We fit together in that moment; two puzzle
pieces that until that point had been clattering around in an empty box. And
then he was gone. The emotions in my dream world were so intense; the sense of
loss was sharp and biting. Eventually, as always, the world faded and the
darkness of a dreamless sleep consumed me.

Much too early the next morning I found myself
jarred awake. Glancing over to the small side window, I saw heavy sunlight
streaming through. I had slept long and soundly for the rest of the night.
Lying back, I contemplated the latest addition from last night. In typical
dream murkiness, the details were already fading, but I remembered – the woman
had spoken to me. And in the bright clarity of morning, one detail stood out:
she had the same accent as the alley man. Excellent! One more thing to add to
my list of strange.

My first attempt at rolling out of bed
was pain-filled. I’d forgotten about my injuries. Lifting my flannel shirt, I
grimaced. Still an ugly dark purple, although some spots had yellowed. I must
admit that I take my ability to heal in a quick manner for granted, but this
injury was worse than usual. With a deep breath for courage, I sat up and
pulled myself out of bed.