by Jacinta Jade
Min and Damo—I love how you tell me what you think will happen in my books…it lets me keep doing the opposite and surprising you.
Lisa—halfway around the world while I worked on this, but your feedback is always just as good.
My parents—thank goodness you’re just keeping up with technology enough to read these books in electronic format; keep at it.
Shane—thank you for teaching me so much about the social media world so I can communicate to people that I, and my books, exist.
Al—thank you for looking so impressed when you saw my first book. The words, ‘It’s a real book!’ still make me laugh and motivate me to keep going. Your support means everything.
Michelle Hope—what a find you were back in 2017. Your edits transform my work.
My advanced reviewers—thank you for helping everyone else get excited about this sequel.
And finally, to all my readers—keep reading and I’ll keep writing for you. The journey will continue thanks to you.
EXCERPT - BOOK 3
CHANGE OF DARKNESS
CHAPTER ONE
FOR SIRAY, the rest of that terrible day following Jorgi’s execution by Captain Raque seemed to drag by in a blur of fatigue, fitful sleep, and a depressing silence between her and her friends, although now that her shock had subsided a little, she had also finally noticed the smell of the sea.
Unbelievably, the black-uniformed Faction soldiers that Captain Raque commanded provided the remaining captives with food and water twice more over the course of the day, and after a torturous debate with Baindan and a hard-faced Wexner about whether the food could be poisoned in some manner, Siray and her friends ate their fill—albeit hesitantly at first.
A grim melancholy continued to hang over them all, and although the group didn’t discuss the deaths of Jorgi or Deson at all that day, Siray could see her friends purposefully avoiding looking across the yard at the spot on the sandy stonework where Jorgi had been killed. But the faces of the friends she had lost continually wove themselves in and out of Siray’s thoughts.
Each time she would think of one of them—Deson’s brown eyes, or Jorgi’s always unkempt pale-red hair—a wave of grief would wash over her, and her knees would grow weak while her stomach attempted to reject everything she had eaten.
In those moments, Siray would lean forward over her knees, careful to keep her long red hair out of the way in case her stomach did revolt. Indeed, she hated herself for even wanting to eat, but her despair had no impact on her body’s physical requirements.
Only remembering her earlier conversation with Tamot, when his freckled face had spilled tears onto her shoulder as she told him that they must survive, stilled any complete collapse into grief.
She had to survive. She had to fight. And she then she could get her revenge.
Sleep provided an escape from her grief—that aching hole in her mind and soul where her connection with Deson had one lived—and from the physical pain of her suffering body. It also protected her from seeing the anguished faces of the eight others in her little group, their expressions a reflection of what her own blue eyes had seen.
Worst, of course, were the haunted hazel eyes of Tamot, who had continued to walk around unseeing and unhearing for most of the day after Siray had released him from the gripping hug that had stopped him from attacking the soldiers who had killed his mate, Jorgi. Tamot had only eaten something after a concerned Genlie had placed a portion of food into his palm and guided that hand to his mouth, the light-haired female trying hard to hide her concerned expression. Thankfully, Tamot still seemed to be able to chew and swallow automatically.
But what else could be expected after his mate had been killed before his eyes?
Siray could empathise given the pain she felt following Deson’s death. That she still felt. Deson—who had been courting her—might have been her mate. Now she would never know.
Like the other Resistance captives around them, sleeping was how they spent a good deal of their time that day. Not that they had a choice about it, really, not with full stomachs after being almost starved and then collapsing from fatigue after three days of constant marching.
In fact, it was amazing that any of them were able to wake for the meals that followed the first. But if the smell of the warm food brought out by the sneering Faction soldiers wasn’t enough to draw them from slumber, then the sounds of other captives moving to fill their bellies again was more than sufficient.
Siray hated those guards. Hated the small gold X’s that crossed over the shoulders of their uniforms, hated them for reminding her of the Faction soldiers who had fired the arrows that had killed Deson, and hated them for the fact that, even though the captives outnumbered them in the yard, they were ultimately outnumbered by guards that they couldn’t see—both on the walls, in towers, and throughout the city.
Indeed, the temptation to attack those cold-faced males and females who followed orders so ruthlessly was something Siray, and she suspected the others, had to fight continuously, given that the guards walked around with little more than short knives on their belts. But then, who knew what animals the guards could Change into? And what did it really matter when those same guards knew they were covered by archers patrolling the walls?
The second time a meal was delivered, there was not the same rush for food. The keen edge of desperation had been dulled after that first meal in the sandy yard. And it was clear that there was plenty of food available. So any hurrying was a result of a yet-to-be-quelled instinct, one that had been heightened over just three days, when the captives had been unsure of when their next meal might be.
So Siray forced her focus back to survival and keeping her head down. But it amazed her that, even after her second hot meal of the day, part of her still wanted to dive forwards to be the first to be served from the barrels. The first to have her thirst satisfied. But it was an impulse she checked, lest the same instinct in others result in a brawl—something the Faction soldiers would no doubt enjoy watching.
As she lined up for food directly behind the golden-haired Zale, the male’s matching eyes scanning the yard constantly, Siray peered around over her shoulder at the other captives cautiously, bending a little to look past a fidgeting Loce who stood behind in her.
Scanning the hopeless faces of her fellow captives, she realised that nearly everyone in that yard must have lost someone they knew—friends or acquaintances—on the long march here. Siray also noted a few of them staring back at her as their eyes found the scars that crossed her left eye and cheek, and she looked away towards the other side of that stone-walled space to avoid their looks which brought back other painful memories.
A few captives had now formed small groups, while others were obviously keeping themselves deliberately separate. One of the latter was Melora. Even when lining up for food, the other captives gave the curly-haired female a wide birth, leaving large gaps between themselves and her.
Siray guessed that Melora’s isolation was because of the slaughter of injured Resistance members that she had been a part of. Had been forced to be part of, in order to prove herself worthy and emerge safely from that group of thirty. And although Siray knew that Melora had been as much a victim of that fight as anyone else, she couldn’t bring herself to talk to her either. Especially when bits of dried blood from that fight still marked Melora’s clothes and skin.
As the only survivor of that bloody fight, Melora had been offered the chance to rejoin the larger group of captives, who had each been assessed as strong enough to complete the Faction’s training program. Even with the pre-existing injuries to her lower body, and the further wounds she must have sustained in the actual fight itself, Melora had managed to survive the march.
From what Siray had seen, Melora also hadn’t sought the company of the other Resistance captives. Instead, she had lined up for her meal, then retreated to a quiet corner of the yard, still limping slightly, her eyes tracking everyone else’s movements as she ate quickly.
But this was only a random thought that wandered into Siray’s mind before it brought up the memory of Deson battling the female in Gonron’s recreation room.
And any thought of Deson pushed everything else out of Siray’s mind, making her numb. Until the grief returned—sharp enough that Siray felt sure that somewhere in her a knife was twisting.
Her only protection against succumbing to the pain was to repeat her mantra:
Must survive. Must fight...
PURCHASE BOOK 3 - CHANGE OF DARKNESS
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