“One of the most beautiful, deeply-layered stories I’ve ever read. Out of The Shadows will hold you spellbound from the first page, and leave you craving for more after the last one. Tessa van Wade has created an iconic woman in Willow who has to discover her identity to fulfill her destiny.”
—Wayne Jacobsen, author of He Loves Me, Live Loved Free Full, and co-author of The Shack
“Out of the Shadows digs and probes deep into your psyche. Adrenaline kicks in right away and the mind-bending, heart-stopping action never stops until you turn the last page. Reminiscent of both The Matrix film and Twilight series with hints of Frank Peretti, Ted Dekker, and more recent other-worldly fiction author, Shawn Smucker. The sequel can’t get here soon enough.”
—Anna LeBaron, author of The Polygamist’s Daughter: A Memoir
“Riveting, compelling, and inspiring! Tessa Van Wade’s marvelous story captivated me in the first few pages and wouldn’t let go. To explore some of my own journey in a genre I rarely read was stunning. I can’t wait for more.”
—John Lynch, author of On My Worst Day
“Suspense from the start! Full of unexpected twists, Out of the Shadows will be a nice addition to your summer reading list. ”
—Dr. Stephanie Bennett, author of Within the Walls, a futuristic trilogy of love, loss, and the universal longing for community
“When Tessa Van Wade’s impressive story and compelling writing style merge together the reader can expect a type of Mark Wahlberg action packed, international experience. When I stepped away from the book to do my daily tasks, my mind was back in the story, pondering each account, the characters and their significance. When I finished reading Out of the Shadows, I realized we are all Willow in one-way or another. See if you too can find your own connection.”
—Ralaine Fagone, author of Burden of Promise: When Tragedy Becomes a Teacher
“Out of the Shadows artfully combines all the elements of a compelling story that can be read on many levels. Tessa van Wade gives us characters that are relatable yet interesting and puts them in settings that is at once common and fantastical. Through unpredictable twists she ramps of the tension until she left me hanging on a cliff.”
—Kate Lapin, freelance editor, formerly with Scholastic Books
“Never a dull moment in this action-packed, fast-paced drama reminiscent of The Hunger Games or The Matrix. This weekend-read reminded me how much I love a good story. My imagination traveled from the cherry blossoms of Japan to the cliffs of the Swiss Alps on a wild chase filled with danger and mystery. Each chapter aroused more questions than answers. While Willow’s life unraveled and unfurled, my own humdrum life was interrupted with the truth that there’s much more to reality than the eye can see. What am I willing to sacrifice to walk in my true identity?”
—Sara Geesey, artist and mother
“Mysterious, engaging, thought-provoking, and fast-paced, Tessa Van Wade’s imaginative and action-packed adventure will keep you holding on for dear life. I read Out of the Shadows from cover to cover in two days and I can’t wait to pick up the next book in the series. It is thoroughly enjoyable and surprising. She kept me guessing with every page turn!”
—Jessica Glasner, author of Voyage of the Sandpiper and Saving Grace
“I love this new series from Tessa Van Wade. The action-packed, fast pace keeps your adrenaline going while well-crafted language creates a sensual journey around the world, from Switzerland to Japan to the tropics and more. Van Wade explores some dark themes and grapples with the most base and universal of human emotions—loss, fear, hate, hope, love. I’m excited to meet Remy... Our maniacal antagonist is still on the run, and the supporting characters are well-developed, powerful, and unique in their own right. Would love to read their own stories!”
—Leah Unger, wife of former all-pro Seattle Seahawks center Max Unger
“Out of the Shadows had me captured from the opening scene. It pulled you in with its gripping storyline and mysterious interconnections. I found myself barely able to put it down. It keeps you on the edge of your seat the whole time. I haven’t been this entertained with a book since Harry Potter! I can’t wait to get my hands on the next one! Tessa is exceptional at painting a scene where you feel like you are in it with them.”
—Stephanie Marie Beeby, M.S., Founder, CEO of In Flow CEO Consulting
“It’s Tessa Van Wade’s cinematic writing that grabs you and won’t let go—it’s the compelling characters and landscapes that transport you- but it’s the deeper messages that sneak up and move you. I could not put this book down. It’s always the sign of a great story when you find yourself thinking about the characters throughout the day when you’re not reading it- this was one of those books for me. Can’t wait for more from Tessa!”
—Dr. Alison Steiner, PsyD, Licensed Psychologist
ISBN: 978-1-7340153-7-9 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7340153-8-6 (ebook)
Copyright © 2020 by Tessa Van Wade
All Rights Reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Blue Sheep Media
BlueSheepMedia.com
2902 East C Street | Torrington, WY 82240
p. 201.240.7106 | 213.408.9322
email: [email protected]
Cover and Interior designs: Lorie DeWorken,
www.mindthemargins.com
Printed in the United States of America
First printed: June 2021
Dedicated to my daughters, Evie and Georgia.
May you always be warriors against fear,
trailblazers for justice, and the heroines of your own story.
And most importantly, choose love.
UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
WASHINGTON, D.C.
PERSONAL ATTENTION CONFIDENTIAL
SAC LETTER NO. 94
VELIERI DEPARTMENT
7/15/1989
MEMO FOR MR. OR MS. QUAYLE, CHENEY, THORNBURGH, RYKOR, PENNINGTON, REDS, SHULTZ, FEENEY, PIERNE, LANDOLIN, IOTA, MCCABE
RE: 7USX POSSIBLE FIND
Your attention is directed to Bureau bulletin #899, relating to the possible 7USX of the Velieri matter. For your confidential information only to be discussed or measured between the Reds, Swiss, Velieri, Landolin, Rykor Informant, and the Velieri FBI Division.
Classified restricted information:
Finds in the State of California, re: San Francisco, multiple births reactive to Velieri protocol. One being of sensitive matter referring to markings representing one Velieri, reflecting Landolin properties. Dual Hypothalamus by way of the pituitary gland present upon study.
Suggested as set forth by President George H.W. Bush and Lead Velieri Force
Mr. Leigh Rykor (V) immediate study and observation until a substantial understanding of the present subject.
To be carried out by FBI: VI Division. Jurisdiction preserved and sensitive nature of the subject to remain confidential.
Very Truly Yours,
George H.W. Bush
President of the United States
Listening to the clap of my shoes is a necessary distraction. Only three more blocks to home. The one-two tap of my shoes turns into a one-one, two-two, telling me that someone is nearby. For several yards this echo continues.
The footsteps behind me quicken, so I turn to look b
ehind. Twenty feet away, a man keeps under the shadow of the buildings. His body language seems foreboding, his shoulders hunch forward, his head down, while his eyes rock back and forth from the sidewalk to me then back down. I’m not sure whether it is the way that his steps match my pace, or that he doesn’t acknowledge me when I make sure to show him that I have seen him, but I instinctively hurry.
Please don’t speed up . . . please don’t speed up, I beg as my shaking hands struggle with my keys in my pocket to place one between my middle and forefinger.
My shoulders spasm when his pace quickens.
More than likely he’s just passing, Willow. It’s already been a bad day . . . it can’t get worse.
Several more yards, and several more beats of our feet intertwine. A strange whistle between his teeth carries along the echoing Pruitt Street and the sound of something hard clinks across the metal bars of an alley gate. I look again, his grin tells me he wants to play a game.
His relentless eyes continue to follow me while clinking a glass along the walls. My heart jumps from my chest to my throat, as my tense hand digs the key into my skin. Suddenly his bottle breaks and he’s left with a jagged edge. He stops. Looks at it then playfully raises an eyebrow and smiles.
A smile should have been helpful, but there is an absence of anything good in his eyes. It seems no different than a hunter releasing the safety on a gun just before his kill. These are his rules within his game, as he stares me down.
Move faster, Willow.
I do. But then . . . so does he.
This isn’t happening. Just minutes ago, I was safe with my friends and it was my choice to walk alone. My panic makes my lips numb, or maybe it’s just the cold. Either way, my heart jars my ribs.
It’s only ten steps before he dives at me and ten steps before I crash to the ground . . .
FOURTEEN HOURS AGO . . .
I don’t remember turning my alarm off in the middle of the night, but I did. So, I’m late. Which means, I’ve had no coffee, my hair is a mess, and the papers I graded last night are on my counter . . . in my kitchen. Yep, that’s how this morning is going. So, it’s not surprising that the dark clouds of San Francisco release their torrential downpour without warning just as I step out of the BART station.
“I still have a quarter mile walk,” I say to the woman in nurses’ scrubs next to me. She sighs, “Me too.”
You would think after so many years of living here, I would be prepared for unpredictable weather. Using my bag as an umbrella, I hurry my way across the slippery sidewalks, through a couple of alleys, and by the time I reach the white-slatted schoolhouse my hair is plastered to my face, my eyes pour black tears, and I can wring out my soaking white shirt.
The long day ahead still laughs at me.
Just above the entrance is a hand-carved, wooden sign that reads, “Union School, Founded 1908,” and someone has tagged it with graffiti overnight. “Really?” I say to the world. This big old city makes me feel alone.
My mother, Ava Union, always told me, “Willow, your grandpa built these walls and I think he still lives in them. In fact, he often speaks to me in this schoolhouse.” She floated through life on a cloud, which might be the reason my feet are always cemented to the ground. Outsiders often made fun of her, but I loved her, even though she refused to wear a bra, found it impossible to stay with one man or hold down a job, and believed in angels that followed us around.
She died on a Thursday, one year ago today.
Suffice it to say, it’s not a good day.
The hall is empty, which makes me want to check the time, but my phone is dead. Screams and yells rush through the hall from the direction of my classroom.
“Oh, no.” I run toward the noise, trying not to slip because of my wet shoes, and throw open my classroom door. My students are in chaos, laughter and screams everywhere, until they see me and rush to their desks.
“It stinks in here, Miss Willow!” one of the kids howls.
Forget the smell. Just get on with it. “What does rain create in places with little ventilation?” I ask, as I hurry to my desk. They look at me with confusion. “Have I taught you nothing?” I grin. At least these ten-year-olds are cute, but they give me blank expressions, so I continue. “Mold. It creates mold. So, what do we need to do?”
DeSean raises his hand. “Yes, DeSean?” I ask.
“Open the windows,” he replies.
“Can you do that for me?” I ask him. He’s proud as he travels the room and opens each window.
The breeze rushes in and the sound of rain makes it hard to hear, while I dump everything from my backpack. A red rose that was left on my doorstep falls to my desk and gets smashed beneath my calculator. I purposely reach over and press the calculator down till my palm hurts, smooshing the irritating rose till it bleeds on my desk. It’s not the rose . . . but the man who gave me the rose.
“Let’s just get through the day . . . shall we?” I suggest.
The day is better than I expect, as the kids keep me busy. I’m able to not think about my mom. The fact that it’s Friday carries me through until the school bell sounds, sending the small beings back home.
I made it. My day may have sucked, but at least it’s the weekend. So, a couple hours after finishing up some loose ends in my quiet classroom, I now sit comatose on the metro system while the sun sets.
After thirty-three years in the city, BART is the only way I get from point A to B just like the old lady with her knitting needles across from me, or the man with a beanie regardless of the weather, and the woman who eats mayonnaise and mustard packets with no sandwich. These familiar faces bounce back and forth as we shoot through the tunnels of the old city.
At my stop, I recoil from the cold, while puffs of white air rise from my mouth. A low fog is rolling in and trapping an abnormal chill between the buildings. Even still, I drink in a damp but glorious weekend breath.
The restaurant is covered in white, sparkling lights for the holiday season. Fresh pine wreaths hang around the neck of each lamp post even though it is only mid-November, which reminds me that I need to bake harvest cookies for the school’s party on Monday.
There is an exciting end-of-the-week exhilaration as I weave in and out of the crowd searching for my friends. While dodging shoulders, ducking beneath glasses, and avoiding eye contact from the men around the bar, I search for Amanda’s unavoidable, brilliantly blue hair and Randy’s ACDC T-shirt. Finally, Amanda’s newly pink curls, glowing under the vintage Golden Gate Bridge sign, catch my attention.
“Willow!” They call. She pulls at her curls, “Pink!” she hollers with a shrug as she hugs me.
“Totally you,” I laugh as I pull up a chair. “Oh, the weekend, thank the Lord!” I say loud enough to hear over the single and mingle crowd.
“Tough week?” Amanda asks.
“Not the best. How about you—” My words stick when the recognizable stomp of Ian, my ex-fiancé, plows through the bar’s patrons.
“I’m so sorry,” Amanda quickly pleads. “Randy invited him after I invited you, without knowing that each other invited the other, if that makes sense.” She places her hand on mine, her eyes begging for forgiveness.
“He left a rose on my doorstep this morning,” my voice comes out in a whisper-yell.
“Really?” she says sweetly. “Because of your mom?”
“That would take thought. It’s because he needs a date tomorrow . . . guaranteed.”
“I can’t believe it’s been a year since your mom died. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I smile at Amanda, her eyes comforting. “Thank you.” I squeeze her hand.
“The flower has to be because he remembers,” she says.
My eyes roll to another dimension. “I promise you, he doesn’t.”
Amanda gets mischievous, “Well, this will be an interesting test.”
“Hey!” Ian calls out. He hugs Randy, kisses Amanda on the cheek, and then we do an uncomfortable song and dance. “Hi,�
�� he says to me.
“Hi,” I say back.
Freedom now morphs into a heavy brick in my stomach as Randy orders four beers. When my arms finally relax from alcohol, Ian sits next to me with a smile. “How did your week go?” he asks. I look at him strangely until he shrugs. “I’m trying to ask about you.”
“After six years? Really?”
“Just answer the question.” His chin creases as he takes a drink.
“Today sucked actually.”
Ian erupts with a yell of frustration, which confuses me for just a moment until I see the Lakers game playing on a television across the room. I close my eyes for a second and try to breathe. He yells at the ref a bit more, then continues. “Did you see the article my sister wrote about your mom?” He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “She told me to give this to you.”
Maybe he does remember?
My mother’s picture stares back at me. I nearly can’t remember her healthy face. “So, your sister got the grant?”
“Yeah. They’ll be spending the next five years studying your mom’s cancer.”
“Wow, that’s amazing . . .” Our eyes meet, which makes me wonder if our friendship can exist. “I’ll make sure to call your sister tomorrow.”
“Or you can just come over?” He grins. Instantly he sees my irritation. “Or not. You got the rose?”
“No,” I lie. “Why’d you leave a rose?”
“’Cause I wanted to.”
“There’s no reason?” I ask, noticing Amanda is listening. “There’s no other reason but because you wanted to?”
It takes a moment, but he soon smiles, “Okay, well the precinct’s winter dinner is tomorrow night. We’re supposed to have dates.”
Amanda shakes her head with irritation behind her big brown eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
“What?” Ian shrugs, yet we say nothing, and his attention goes back to the game.
Unexpectedly, a very handsome and very tall man in a blue sweater passes by our table. Both Amanda and I can’t help but stare. He seems a bit older than us, with deep green eyes and messy dark hair that falls to his temples. He lands at an empty table just across the room, but it isn’t until I see his eyes that he seems strangely familiar. Somehow with sixty people in a room and a max capacity of forty-five, he makes direct eye contact with me. His grin sends my stomach into a loop-di-loop and I smile.
Out of the Shadows: Book One of the Velieri Uprising Page 1