Copyright
Copyright © Siobhan Davis 2015. Siobhan Davis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Men in Black II quotes © Robert Gordon, Barry Fanaro, Columbia Pictures (a division of Sony Pictures).
Work of Fiction
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Conditions of Sale
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, shared, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Author.
E-Book edition © December 2015
ASIN: B0167DZCME
Editor: Kelly Hartigan (XterraWeb)
editing.xterraweb.com
Cover design by Kremena Stoqnova
Girl cover image © Aaron Tyree. Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution – NC 2.5 Generic
Boy cover image and background © Bigstockphoto.com
Table of Contents
Copyright
Saven Series
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
A Special Note from the Author
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY SIOBHAN DAVIS
Saven Series
SAVEN: DECEPTION
The First Saven Novel
Siobhan Davis
www.siobhandavis.com
For Mum and Dad
CONSCIENCE
“A knowledge or sense of right and wrong, with an urge to do right; moral judgment that opposes the violation of a previously recognized ethical principle and that leads to feelings of guilt if one violates such a principle.”
Source: Collins American English Dictionary.
Prologue
Dr. Evana Taylor locked her office door and walked briskly out of the building. Tugging the collar of her brown cashmere coat up over the nape of her neck, she strode across the empty parking lot, the wind whipping her long copper-colored hair in a mass of tangles all over her face.
Though it wasn’t yet November, the cold weather had arrived with a bang. The icy layer snaking through the dark night air slapped her skin as brutally as a punch to the face. Wincing, she picked up speed and walked with renewed vigor, desperate for the warmth and safety of her car.
Her thoughts flipped to her husband and she sighed. Her recurring tardiness angered him. It was becoming more of a regular occurrence as her client list grew, and she sensed his mounting frustration. Since she had received the coveted NextGen Psychologist Award, she was in high demand. Her research on cognitive behavioral therapy continued to win her numerous accolades, and she was cresting a wave she’d only ever dreamed about.
This was her once-in-a-lifetime chance to develop the type of career she’d always desired and an opportunity to build a nest egg that would secure her family’s future. Although it required personal sacrifices—most of which she was willing to make—she deplored missing her son’s bedtime. Peeking at her watch, she sighed loudly. She would have to wait until morning now to see her little Glenn.
An ominous sense of foreboding swept over Evana and she instinctually glanced over her shoulder. The Psychiatric Facility was bathed in eerie darkness; the only visible light a dim glow from the small security desk in the front lobby. Shaking off her paranoia, she picked up her pace and strode with purpose toward her car.
A monstrous gust of wind swept the length of the lot, and tiny hairs rose to attention on the back of her neck. Inexplicable fear sent her heart rate skyrocketing as blood stampeded through her veins. In her haste to reach her car, Evana tripped over her feet and took a tumble. Silently cursing, she pushed off her hands as a blinding ray of light immersed her form on the ground.
Shielding her eyes, she looked up and froze. An icy tremor ripped up and down her spine as her body became weightless, and she began to float off the ground. She tried resisting the pull, but her muscles stubbornly refused to cooperate. She opened her mouth to scream, but her vocal cords were paralyzed, and the scream lay dying on her tongue. Trapped within herself, she had no way to release her panic.
As she ascended, she fought the urge to close her eyes. But her lids grew heavy and cumbersome, and eventually darkness swooped in and laid claim to her.
***
Heat radiated underneath Evana’s body, and she was cocooned in a heady sensation that feathered skin deep. A steady thrumming sound reverberated around her, and the gentle swaying motion of her surroundings, combined with the pleasurable warmth, enveloped her in a heavenly blanket. A satisfied moan escaped her lips.
“She is conscious,” a voice said in a lilting, heavily accented tone. Evana’s heart slammed against her ribcage as renewed panic set in. Parking lot. Lights. Body floating upward. Too afraid to open her eyes and confront reality, Evana prayed, as she’d never prayed before in her life.
“Dr. Taylor,” a strange voice said, “open your eyes.” Her eyes fluttered open upon his command despite her reluctance and fear.
A man and woman loomed over her, scrutinizing her as if she was a mutant insect or a science experiment gone wrong. Anxiety prickled underneath the surface of her skin, but she was immediately drawn to the man, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
He was tall—well over six foot—and in his early forties, if she had to hazard a guess. His jet-black hair was graying at the temples, and fine silver lines weaved an artistic path across his head. It gave him a distinguished look, a regal presence, as if he was a member of old royalty or some lauded dynasty. The curve of his taut jawline and the smooth even lines of his skin revealed a face that was remarkably well preserved for a man of his years. Frowning, she wondered if her initial assessment of his age was wide of the mark.
One thing she was sure of: He was the most beautiful man she’d ever met. Mesmerized, she couldn’t look away.
That assessment held until she zeroed in on his eyes, which were a startling azure blue at first glance. Upon closer inspection, she spotted the cold, harsh, inhumane glare lying underneath. His eyes scanned the line of her body with barely contained disgust, and she shivered despite the warm blanket of air encasing her on all sides. When his eyes fixed on hers, she drew in a sharp gasp at the blatant hostility reflected in his stare.
Outwardly, he may look like a man, but she knew, deep down inside, he wasn’t human.
Terror spiked inside her, yet strangely, she found herself taking his offered hand and swinging her legs off the elevated bed.
“We’re so glad you could join us, Doctor,” he said in that weird inton
ation, his words clearly at odds with his chilling facial expression. He made it sound like she’d accepted a formal dinner invite when this was a clinical case of alien abduction. Fear battled with acceptance in her mind as she placed one foot in front of the other.
She walked alongside him, the woman trailing at their heels. He led her down a sleek passageway and brought her into a huge room, which appeared to be a personal chamber of sorts. Only then did Evana heed her surroundings.
Large tinted glass windows rimmed the perimeter of the room on all sides, granting her a breath-stealing front row seat. Earth was clearly visible in the frame, like a gigantic circular blue ball with sporadic green and white streaks crisscrossing the circumference. Stars twinkled and sparkled against the inky black backdrop of outer space.
She stumbled clumsily as the reality of the situation hit her full force. The man slung an arm around her waist and steadied her. “Take a seat.”
She slumped down on the narrow couch.
The woman moved her hand in a graceful sweeping motion, and a holographic screen materialized in the space in front of them. Evana tried to swallow her fear at the displayed image of her husband and son. Failing, she let out a strangled cry.
“Cooperate and they will come to no harm. Refuse and you will never see them again.” The woman spoke without any trace of emotion, any hint of hesitation.
“What do you want from me?” Evana asked in a shaky voice.
“We require your psychological expertise,” the man responded.
“For what purpose?” Wrapping her arms around herself, Evana fought to stave off the violent trembling taking hold of her.
“We need you to train us how to behave like humans. How to emulate their actions and thought processes.”
“Why?” Evana asked the question though she dreaded the reply.
“Because, when the time comes, we want to blend in without detection.”
A messy ball of emotion pressed down on Evana’s chest as his words sunk in. Staring at the image of her husband and son, a single tear slid down her cheek. An amused grin tugged up the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
He shook his head.
She paused considerably before responding. Knowing she was making a deal with the devil, she also understood she was damned no matter what choice she made. “Okay.”
“Perfect.” He rose to his full height. “Leave us, Leandra.” He dismissed the woman with a disrespectful wave of his hand.
“My king.” She bowed at the waist.
As she walked out of the room, she threw a scathing look at Evana. It was a look loaded with vengeful promise. Evana’s whole body shuddered as repressed fear surged into every cell, every tissue, every nerve ending.
“This way,” the king said, gesturing with his hand. “Let me introduce you to your students.”
CHAPTER 1
The stench of stale sweat, unwashed skin, and rancid body odor assaults my nostrils and I gag. The temperature in the carriage must be pushing ninety degrees, and a steady line of sweat coasts down my spine, gluing my shirt to my back. A craving to crawl out of my skin hits me like a bullet to the chest.
It’s not a new sentiment. It’s an urge I feel at least once every hour.
A potent desire to be anyone but myself.
To live any life but this one.
Heat rolls off the large body behind me, and the man grunts. The desire to shed my skin accelerates, and I shudder uncontrollably. Everywhere I look, I’m confronted by a sea of grimy bodies in dirty, sweat-encrusted work clothes. Being short sucks almost all the time, but being stuck in the middle of an overcrowded, bursting-at-the-seams subway carriage, during one of the hottest heat waves New York has known, sucks butt on a stratospheric level, and has me cursing the genes that stalled my growth at five feet one.
Claustrophobia swoops in, surrounding me in an anxiety-laced cloud. I know I’ve reaching my tipping point.
I can’t bear this a second longer.
With my lungs screaming for air, I push my way forward and fling myself out onto the platform in the nick of time. The train eases out of the station as my legs make a break for freedom. I bound up the stairs two at a time, my entire being straining for release.
Bursting out of the station gate, I slow my pace, and my breathing returns to normal. I set out in a westerly direction. The setting sun leaves a dull orangey-red trail in its wake as it rapidly falls in the advancing nighttime sky. Nevertheless, it’s still hot as hell.
My eye flits to the holographic Commi-Reel projected in the sky against the backdrop of the fading day, and I shriek when I spot the time. Dammit! I’m going to be late. If I breach curfew again, that will make it three times this month.
My parents will literally kill me.
My body clearly understands the criticality of the situation as my legs move of their own accord, and I start pounding the pavement.
High-rise residential blocks encroach on all sides as I run. The tall, gray concrete slab constructions fill the skies as far as my eyes can see. Intermittent, drab storefronts are the only break in the monotony of my surroundings. Each Sector mirrors the previous one. Dense, thick smog fills the air and I splutter at regular intervals as my lungs claw for something clean and fresh to inhale.
There isn’t a sinner in sight.
Of course, there isn’t.
Most of them are already crammed into their boxy apartments or en route home via the sweaty death trap they call a subway. A rapid-transit high-velocity transportation system has been in operation in the Core and Midi Circles since before my birth, but here in the Outer Circle, we have to resort to using the old New York subway system despite the safety risks and considerable concerns.
Last year’s massive subway crash cost thousands of lives, but the government stubbornly refuses to extend the Velo network to the Outer Sectors. Lack of finances was spouted. A likely story. Irrespective of protests to the contrary, the lower classes are more than expendable and don’t we know it. I’d bet my miserable life the government arranged the crash themselves.
That’s one unique way of tackling the mounting overpopulation crisis.
I round the corner into Sector Seventeen. Three more to go but my legs already ache. Squinting up at the Commi-Reel, I clock the time and mentally calculate the distance. Twenty-four minutes until curfew. Two miles to run. If I can maintain this pace, I might make it. If I’m lucky.
But Mother Luck never shines on me.
Wiping my hand across my moist forehead, I stumble sideways as my body slams full force into an Imposer. Landing unceremoniously on my ass, I wince as a dart of pain shoots up my spine.
A metallic hand is extended and I’m pulled to my feet. “Wrist, please,” he commands. This one talks in a human voice, so I know he’s part of the Robo-Police force—part-human, part-robot, and not one of the pure cloned kind.
Flipping my arm, I reluctantly obey, thrusting my wrist upward as the Imposer scans my skin. “Sadie Owens. Seventeen years of age. Sector Fourteen. Medi-Tech employee number 133779. It’s twenty-three minutes to curfew. What are you doing out on the streets?”
I’m reluctantly impressed. He said all that without drawing a breath. “Um, I … I felt sick,” I lie, glancing at the dwindling time ticking away on the digital clock. I need to get out of here and fast. “So I had to get off the subway and make it home on foot.”
“Two infractions already this month.” He scans the holographic report skimming over the film of his eyes. “Don’t make it a third. Move on.”
I maneuver around him and start sprinting. I’m never going to make it now. Mom will be furious. I’m mentally preparing myself for a tongue lashing when the latest government news bulletin blares out from the Commi-Reel.
The announcement is typical. Updates on the political talks between the Sovereign Northern States of America—our ruling government—and the newly Unified States of West and South America. The Independent Republic of
Central America and the Eastern Seaboard States have yet to throw their hat into the ring.
I zone out. Same old, same old.
None of the proposed reforms will do anything to change my life or alter my fate. I’m stuck right where I am until I die. Unless …
My mind wanders and I drift off into La-La Land. I dream about Thalassic City. About opportunity. And second chances. About actually living.
The sound of gunfire breaks through my reverie, and my eyes dart to the screen. Screeching to a halt, I blink twice in case my eyes are deceiving me.
PRISON BREAK.
The words flicker in and out on the screen, and I stand there with my mouth agape as I watch the recording of the daring convict escape.
Six men. Five days on the run. All orchestrated by one prisoner.
Something like this has never happened before. At least not in my lifetime.
Wow.
ARMED AND DANGEROUS. WATSON MANLY ELEVATED TO NO.1 ON MOST WANTED LIST. IF SPOTTED, DO NOT APPROACH. CALL 1-899-201-304. REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS CAPTURE.
I wonder what this Watson Manly person did to deserve a spot in the penitentiary and how he managed to escape. Although I don’t know him, and I’ve no idea what crime he’s committed, I’m already rooting for him.
Not sure what that says about me.
A loud peel of laughter travels up my throat. Something out of the ordinary has finally happened, and it sends a spark of electricity directly to the dull lump in my chest.
I start to run but stop mid-jog. Nineteen minutes to curfew. I’m screwed now anyway, so I might as well give my lungs and my legs a break. I stroll forward at a more leisurely pace, ignoring the panic waiting in the wings.
As I approach the next Sector, I’m half-watching the rest of the news on the screen and half-lost in my obsessive inner monologue, when a hand snags my elbow and I’m yanked sideways.
I scream as a hand clamps down over my mouth and I’m hauled backward against a solid form. I’m dragged roughly through a door, my feet trailing the ground in front of me. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I twist and turn in my captor’s arms.
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