Amara Hargrove (The Fourth of Briar Wood)

by Lauren Bolt

  amara hargrove

  The Fourth of Briar Wood

  (Episode One)

  By Lauren Bolt

  Copyright

  Amara Hargrove (The Fourth of Briar Wood), by Lauren Bolt.

  (c) 2017 Lauren Bolt

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission contact:

  laurenboltbooks@yahoo.com

  Cover and Interior Design by Crystal Parker

  First Edition

  For more by Lauren Bolt, visit http://www.facebook.com/LaurenBoltBooks

  This title was previously published as “Supe (Amara Hargrove)” under the author’s other penname, Crystal Cierlak.

  Episode one

  Are you ready?” The woman looked to her two companions for confirmation before extending her arms, hands outstretched to each side. One on her left, the second on her right, the three women gasped for air as their palms touched, fingers laced together, the familiar tingling sensation coursing from hand to arm to chest and out the other side as it had so many nights before. Tonight was different. If they were lucky it would be the last time. Luck meant success, but either way, they would die. Whether or not they would change the world upon doing so would make all the difference.

  In unison, they chanted. “Tres sumus coniunxit. Nos adiuvetis in itinere.” A wind picked up, rustling the leaves of trees that towered above their heads. Bent at the knees, each woman tightened her grip on the two hands she held, ignoring the stab of twigs and branches beneath them. “Diunitas. Mali. Humanitas. Nos coniungimus.” The once still air moved in swift gusts around them, picking up leaves and tossing them through the dark meadow of trees and around their heads. They kept their eyes shut, ignoring the earth as it picked up around them in the rushed breeze. “Omni natura conuenire.”

  Somewhere far in the distance, there was a howl, the sound picked up by the wind until it rang in their ears. A second and a third followed, bellowing to the sky. Still, each of the three kept their eyes shut, their minds trained on the words they were required to speak in unison.

  “Ligare nos in unum corpus. Nova nos accipere.” Above them the sky erupted, torn apart by the wind and unfolding into dark clouds that moved like waves. An electric beam cackled but produced no light, the bellowing of thunder following close behind, cracking the night sky in half. The quiet meadow had grown into a cacophony of sounds brought to life by their words. The wind blew violently around and between them, bursting through their hair and clothes. Another boom of thunder followed after a crack of lightless energy, electrifying the ends of their hair. Each crack and boom stung before sent another wave of angry gusts between them.

  “Et nos ipsi immolate. Nostra potestate. Essentia nostra. Ex tribus unum faciunt.” The meadow was violent around them. Howls drifted closer until they sounded as if they came from just beyond the barrier of the trees. The knuckles of the first woman’s hands were white, the very bones threatening to pierce the skin that bound them. She and the two chanted again, their voices screaming over the dissonance of the meadow. “ET NOS IPSI IMMOLATE. EX TRIBUS UNUM FACIUNT.”

  A burst of energy cracked again, hitting the shared ground within the triangle with such force it split the earth. A spark of light erupted like a spring coming to life, sending each woman flying backwards through the air as a shockwave ripped their hands apart. As the first woman met the ground beneath her she heard a snap, felt the sharp twinge of immediate pain that flooded her body. From the very edges of her eyes she could see the light rising up from the ground into the sky. How far it reached she did not know; it lit the sky for a brilliant moment before descending back into the ground.

  “Nos tres unum sunt,” she whispered. The pain in her back spread like fire to each limb, burning her in pain until she could barely move. Then, as quickly as it started the pain dissipated, as did any and all feeling in her extremities. The absence of sensation swallowed her, and as it reached her heart she whispered, “It is done.”

  At the end of the story, it is revealed that the protagonist has been of two minds the whole time, shedding light on the clues scattered throughout the story that the reader can go back to catch and wonder why he or she did not see the truth before. Miss Hargrove, would you like to share with us what is so fascinating that you have mentally transported out of English class this morning?”

  It took Amara what seemed like an embarrassingly long time to realize Mr. Goldsmith was talking to her. The heat of her skin blushing from the rush of blood to her cheeks brought her back into the moment. “I’m sorry. I…” she tried to think of an excuse fast enough. “I couldn’t remember if I turned off the coffee pot at home.” A ripple of suppressed laughter moved around the room.

  “Yes, well I can see how that might be troubling to you. Would you care to contribute to the class discussion or do you need to be excused to check that your house is still standing in one piece?” Mr. Goldsmith had a humor about him that always made Amara uncomfortable. Either he was a sarcasm-savant or she was gullible. In either case, twenty-four pairs of eyes were on her, some lit with humor, others irritation, but most benign curiosity. She took a moment to compose herself, swallowing down the embarrassment.

  “I think I’d rather pay attention and catch up on what I’ve missed.” She smiled meekly, hoping to God there was at least an ounce of charm in it to get the attention back on the discussion instead of on her.

  “Very good.” As Mr. Goldsmith continued on Amara let out the breath of air she’d been holding. It was not the first time that day she’d been swept up in thoughts that took her mind out of the classroom, and unfortunately not the first time a teacher had caught her. For whatever reason, she simply could not keep her attention focused in class. Her mind didn’t even go anywhere in particular; she just went blank.

  The class dragged on for another twenty minutes without incident. When the bell rang she was the first to stand and make a hasty exit for the door. Outside in the hallway, it was the usual chaos. Kids at their lockers congregated in the middle of the hallway, couples kissing like the last hour apart had been agony. Amara kept her eyes down as she made her way to her locker. Some jock in a varsity jacket hit her shoulder as he ran past her and shouted “Sorry Amy!” without stopping.

  Typical. Seventeen years in the same school system in the same small town and some random townie still couldn’t get her name right. It wasn’t as if she didn’t stand out as the only Amara in a town full of Jessicas, Amandas, and Brittanys. They strutted around in their Santa Lucia High School cheerleader uniforms with their perfect hair, laughing joyously at some joke that was private just between them, and she made her way by going unnoticed in jeans and a tee shirt. She liked being nondescript.

  In many ways, it was her saving grace to go unnoticed in high school. The food chain of popularity meant that one group was always out to eat another, and her designation as the outlier meant a high school experience mostly free of adolescent hazing, bullying, and general unpleasantness.

  She exchanged the notebooks and textbooks in her backpack with the sack lunch sitting neatly inside her locker, shut and locked the door, and headed straight to her usual spot.

  On a sunny day, Santa Lucia High School was nothing short of beautiful. Tall Queen Palms sprouted up towards the blue sky like thin spires. Magenta colored bougainvillea sprawled and nested along the roofs of every terracotta-topped school building. The grassy lawn where she preferred to eat was always perfectly green and manicured, like most lawns in Santa Lucia, and provided plenty of comfort under the shade of the large fig tree the campus was known for.


  Kids who were spoiled or lucky enough to have their own cars always went off campus to eat, leaving the rest to the cafeteria where the popularity hierarchy was enforced. But underneath the fig tree just on the outskirts of the school, Amara Hargrove found serenity.

  She could always count on eating for ten minutes and reading for another thirty-five before the first bell would ring from the Bell Tower, indicating that their reprieve from learning had concluded. Like clockwork, she shut her book and stuffed it back into her backpack just as the bell rang. She had just five minutes of alone time left and spent it getting more books and relieving herself in the restroom.

  As she turned in the direction of the biology lab in Aliso Hall she was struck with an eeriness that stopped her cold. The person behind her moved quickly to the side to avoid smacking into her and yelled out a colorful variation of, “Watch out, Mary!” before bustling on. Every hair on her arms stood at attention as her skin flooded with goosebumps. Everyone around her rushed off to class, some hitting her shoulders as they passed by, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was intensely watching her.

  A knot curled in her stomach. Her eyes moved amongst the crowd but the only people who looked at her were the ones moving to avoid running into her. The shrill ringing of the Bell Tower brought her back into the moment and the fear subsided, leaving her with just enough adrenaline to run as quickly to class as she could.

  She was late, but no one bothered to glance her way as she moved to her usual lab table and sat down. Minutes passed as the teacher spoke fastidiously of A-, B-, O- and RH-serums and reminded them all of the lab safety procedures.

  Amara’s slacker lab partner graciously allowed her to do all of the work while he texted on his iPhone. Using a small instrument that humorously reminded her of Sleeping Beauty she pricked her finger, drawing a smooth bubble of deep red blood to the surface of her skin.

  “You have really healthy blood.” Startled, Amara looked up and found the owner of the voice. Sophie Parker was looking at her expectantly, waiting for some kind of reply that failed to spring to mind.

  “Um, thanks?” It wasn’t the strangest thing anyone had ever said to her but nonetheless made her momentarily uncomfortable.

  “Do you see how dark the color is? Your blood is healthy with oxygen. I’ve never seen blood that purple before.” That was the strangest thing anyone had ever said to her.

  Sophie seemed to recognize the oddity of the statement and tried to ease the situation with a smile. “I’m sorry. I was reading through a volume on hematology last night and even the pictures of slides of blood samples weren’t so deeply colored. It almost resembles cough syrup.”

  The slacker next to Amara didn’t even look up at the odd exchange but kept on texting. Amara smiled back at her companion and tried to find some sort of response.

  “I guess one can never have too much oxygen in their blood, right?” She half smiled at the pathetic attempt.

  “Actually, you can,” Sophie responded in all manner of seriousness. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and shoulders, and she wore a pair of large rimmed eyeglasses that were slightly too big for her petite and pretty face. “But oxygen toxicity isn’t something you’re likely to experience in Santa Lucia. Or most places for that matter.”

  Okay.

  “I’m Sophie, by the way.” She extended her hand. “Did you just move here?”

  Amara was used to being an outlier, but she’d never had anyone mistake her for the new kid.

  “Sophie we’ve been in the same school since kindergarten. I think we maybe even ate Play-Doh together once or twice.”

  The girl looked genuinely perplexed. Her hand hung in the air, unshaken, as her face worked through a series of complex thoughts. She appeared to be processing her, analyzing her face and appearance with a curious eye.

  “I was four years old when I was diagnosed as having an eidetic memory. I can recall what I ate for breakfast every morning of third grade and on what days it rained that year. I could tell you the names and nationalities of every person I have ever met. And as certain as I am standing in this room right now I know for a fact I have never seen you before in my life.”

  Amara felt as if the wind had been kicked out of her lungs. For the briefest of moments, she considered the possibility that Sophie Parker, perhaps the most nondescript individual on campus other than herself, was playing some sort of prank on her. But the tone of her voice convinced her otherwise.

  “All right class,” the teacher interrupted. “If you’re having difficulties distinguishing which serum reacted with your sample be sure to raise your hand and I’ll come around. For the rest of you be sure to note the results in your lab notebook to include in your report. Don’t forget that it is due no later than Monday.”

  Distracted by the interruption, Amara looked down at her samples and found all four were the same shade of deep red-purple as had come out of her finger.

  “That’s impossible. You must have done it wrong.” Sophie turned and sat down at the lab table in front of Amara, their conversation abruptly ended.

  Amara performed the lab again twice, each time with the same result. According to the three tests she’d performed she had no identifiable blood type. She stared at the twelve samples before her as the class bustled around her, putting lab equipment away in preparation for the bell. She struggled to follow suit and made it back from the stockroom to her table just as the bell rang and the class emptied. She caught Sophie’s eye from across the room and opened her mouth to call out for her when the sudden appearance of her teacher caught her off guard.

  “Trouble completing the lab today, Miss Hargrove?” he asked.

  She forced her mind off of Sophie and on him. “I think I must have tainted my samples somehow. I couldn’t distinguish a reaction in any of them and have no idea what my blood type is.”

  He looked surprised – she wasn’t one for failing - but softened his look with a smile. “I have a detention class after last period,” he started. Detention! She started to protest but he held his hand up to stop her. “If you’d like you can come in and try the lab again.”

  Oh. “That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” She smiled awkwardly and noticed for the first time how tall he was. He practically towered over her like a tree. “I have to get to my next class,” she muttered. Fresh students started filing in as she picked up her backpack to leave. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

  The remainder of the afternoon passed without incident. By the time the final bell rang at 2:55 she was relieved beyond measure and looked forward to just going home. The hallway was clearing out fast as she exchanged books from her backpack to her locker, and the sight of the biology lab book was an irritating reminder that she was not yet done. With a groan, she looped the strap of her backpack over her shoulder and headed through the near-empty hallway to the nearest restroom.

  It was even emptier inside. The tall cubbies of olive green toilet stalls against pristine white tiled walls made her wonder if the school had really changed at all in the decades since it opened. She stepped inside the cleanest one she could find and sat down.

  Lost in her thoughts inside the quiet room it was easy to hear the door open and shut. But it was the absence of footsteps that brought her thoughts back into the moment. She was certain no one else had been in there and there were no other sounds being made.

  You’re being paranoid, she chastised herself. But the day had been odd enough on its own; she didn’t need any other irregularities to make her hair stand on end.

  “Hello?” she called out, feeling quite silly. She drew in a quick breath as she heard what sounded like a small shuffle. From the crease where the stall door met the wall, she could just make out the faintest of shadows.

  She relaxed and expelled the air. Then, as it had moments before, the restroom door opened and closed. No footsteps.

  You’re being ridiculous, she tried to tell herself, but the increase in her hea
rt rate was evidence enough that she was frightened, however unnecessarily. She finished her business quickly and opened the stall door to find a peacefully empty room. After washing and drying her hands she made her way back to the biology lab at Aliso Hall. Though she didn’t know how many students would be attending detention that afternoon, she disliked walking into a room full of people.

  To her great surprise, the lab was empty. Not even Mr. Jackson was present. Each lab table was clean and free of equipment with stools tucked neatly beneath them.

  “Mr. Jackson?” she called out.

  A crash of glass pierced the silence of the room, catching her attention. It came from the direction of the stockroom, a separate office off the lab that contained all of the lab’s equipment.

  “Mr. Jackson is that you?” The room remained silent as she walked towards the door. “Mr. Jacks-AHHH!” she screamed as something unseen brushed past her with great force and speed. She spun around to follow it but lost her footing and fell to the ground, landing knees-and-palms first on the hard linoleum floor.

  It was as if a tornado had picked up and blew right past her. Random sheets of paper that were caught in the gust were floating back down to the ground around her. The atmosphere in the room felt as though it were charged with electricity. Whatever it was that passed her defied any logical explanation she could think of. No one could move that fast.

  A hand landed on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” The person jumped back as Amara cried out in surprise, the shrill sound piercing even her own ears. It was Sophie Parker, and she was looking at Amara with the same sort of curiosity as though she were examining something foreign in a Petrie dish.

  “Did you see it?” Amara asked, still breathless from the phantom encounter.

  “See what? I heard screaming and when I looked through the door I found you on your knees. What happened?”

  Her wrists and knees ached as she lifted herself up off the ground. “I don’t know. I heard glass breaking in the stockroom and then I just … I fell.” On principle, she wasn’t a liar, but when it meant the difference between sounding sane and sounding not sane, she’d risk a white lie.