Tethered (A BirthRight Novel #1)
Page 1
A BirthRight Novel
Tethered
Brandi Leigh Hall
Copyright 2014 Brandi Leigh Hall
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Production Artist
Hirosh Jayakody
Photograph by
Evgeny Varlamov
Poetry by
Walt Whitman, E.E. Cummings, and Robert Browning
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
DEDICATION
For my Mother, whose unconditional love—and unwavering support—has allowed me to follow my dream.
CONTENTS
1. The Return
2. A Familiar Face
3. Driving Miss Crazy
4. The Decision
5. Stalk You Later
6. Assumptions
7. Open Mouth, Insert Truck!
8. Fight Night
9. The Kiss
10. Apologies
11. Reunited
12. The Greatest Lie Ever Told
13. Spellbound
14. The Gemini Prophecy
15. The Miracle
16. Date Night
17. The Betrayal
18. Secrets Revealed
19. The Vision
20. The Botched Exorcism
Epilogue: Paranormal Poker
Chapter 1
THE RETURN
At one point or another, there are three types of call every girl dreams of getting: the “Congratulations! You’ve just won a designer wardrobe every season for life!” call; the call from the hot celebrity you’ve been salivating over since puberty; or a call from the Queen of England saying, “You were accidentally switched at birth, but fortunately, we’ve found you just in time to take your rightful place on the throne.”
But nowhere in those cellular-fantasies, did I ever imagine hearing the only words that could change my life forever—in the worst way: “Chloe, your pap has a brain tumor…and he’d like to see you before surgery, in case….”
In case? Seriously?
My grandmother’s words—and they were her only words—continue bounding backflips through my jumbled mind. Sure, there may have been a “good bye” uttered in there somewhere, but I honestly don’t remember. I think I was catatonic at that point.
Why couldn’t it have just been that long-awaited call from Liam Hemsworth, professing his undying love?
But it wasn’t. So now, I’m forced to fly home to be with the family I haven’t seen since I was in Junior High.
Sure, I’d be lying if I said the only thing I’m worried about is my pap. Each time I imagine seeing him—or what could happen while he’s under the knife—my mind switches to the high-def picture of my siblings faces when they see me for the first time in six years. Or more accurately, the snarling face of my hateful sister.
I’m sure my brother Dru will be happy to have me back. But Dhelia, I’m sure, would rather drink battery acid than breathe the same air as me. And the idea of her less-than-warm greeting is precisely why I’d rather hide under my seat forever. Darling Dhelia scares the bejesus out of me!
But let’s be honest. I’m no stranger to fear. In fact, it’s held me hostage on more than one occasion. So why should today be any different?
Psychotic butterflies circle through my queasy stomach, the plane making its bumpy descent into LaGuardia. As the pressure pops in my eardrums, I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the right choice in returning home. Wouldn’t it be easier to continue being a coward—unable to face reality—and my family?
But sometimes life has a way of catching up with you. Call it karma, or divine intervention. Either way, things happen which force us into doing things we’re not even close to being ready for.
My thudding heart catches in my arid throat, the Jet Blue’s tires send near deafening rumbles throughout the plane as it makes contact with the pavement. If only landing was half as tingling as take off.
“That didn’t scare you, did it, Chloe?” My Aunt Morgan nudges my shoulder, a sarcastic grin peeking out around the corners of her shimmering lips.
“Ah, no.” A nervous giggle escapes my mouth as I turn to look out the slightly steamed-up window. “That was the easy part.”
She unbuckles her seatbelt, straightening out the not-so-flattering wrinkles left behind from the seven-hour flight. “You’ve gotta stop worrying about Dhelia. It’s gonna be fine, I promise.” She laughs, reaching down to grab her purse from under the seat in front of her.
“Wanna grab mine while you’re down there?” I ask in that NutraSweet voice I know she can’t possibly deny.
“Oh, I guess.” She leans back, handing me the oversized Coach bag Gram sent me last Christmas. “You sure you’re ready to face the firing squad?”
Even though every inch of me wants to scream “No way!” and run for the exit, I opt for the less negative response I know my aunt is hoping to hear. “I’m mostly ready I guess. I just hope she doesn’t cause a scene when she sees me.”
“Well she knows you’re coming, so it’s not like she’ll be surprised.”
“Yeah, I know. But still. She hates me and I know she won’t be happy I’m there.”
Morgan clicks her tongue off the roof of her mouth. “Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous. Your sister does not hate you. That’s just absurd.”
My only response is a lame shrug.
We both reach inside our bags for our cell phones, instantly connecting ourselves to the world again. Not that I’m expecting any missed messages. I didn’t really leave much of a social-life behind in sunny California.
Just as Morgan powers up her iPhone, a doorbell-like chime alerts her to a message, so she lifts the phone to her ear. “It’s your Gram.” After about twenty seconds of silence she says, “They decided to head to bed, so we should just let ourselves in and get comfortable.“ She turns to me. “Looks like you’ll have to wait until morning to have your baby-blues scratched out.”
I push out a long, exaggerated sigh, followed by an all too forced smile. “And I was sooooooo looking forward to it tonight. Awe, shucks!”
Laughter fills the air around me as Morgan squeezes my scrunched up cheeks. “You’re so cute when you’re being sarcastic.”
We stand to make our way off the plane just as a blue-haired old woman in the next row decides to chat up Aunt Morgan. I’ve always had a tough time making small talk with strangers, but she can have a conversation with pretty much anyone. And that’s no exaggeration. Just one more trait I clearly didn’t inherit. Why is it the qualities I love in my family, completely managed to escape me at birth—but the ones I loathe more than anything, grabbed hold like a blood-sucking-leech-on-safari and refused to let go?
As a child, I was so completely different from my siblings I’d convinced myself I was adopted. But once I was old enough to realize the rarest of genetic traits was something we all shared, images of being dropped off in a laundry basket on a church stoop, quickly fled my colorful imagination. Not that I was relieved.
You know that old saying, “You can pick your friends—but you can’t pick your family”? Well it might be about as cliché’ as it gets, but it’s also true. At least to me it is. I mean, wouldn’t you feel the same way if your family forced you to be born a Witch—with magical abilities— y
ou’re stuck with for life?
I love my family, but I despise what they turned me into.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not naïve. I know most people would sell their soul to be born with a ‘gift’. But how do you think those same people would feel if that very gift, forced them to witness the death of their parent’s? No, being born a Seer is in no way a blessing. It’s a curse. And going back home is only going to make me relive all the reasons why I left in the first place.
“Miss, do you know where you’re going?” An airline attendant with about a hundred layers of make-up asks.
Realizing I’d stopped in the middle of a crowd just inside the gate, I spin around to see where Morgan disappeared to. I spot her about ten feet away, hopefully wrapping up her conversation about this stranger’s grandchildren—or their various disgusting ailments. “Yes, I’m sorry. I must have been daydreaming.” I point over my shoulder. “I’m just waiting for my aunt.”
Her over-painted, rosy cheeks and smudged lips lift in a smile. “Okay. Enjoy your stay in New York.”
“Thank you.” Though considering the reason I’m here, I’m sure “enjoy” is the last thing I’ll be doing.
I readjust my thousand-pound bag on my shoulder, as a creeped-out feeling slithers its way across my skin. You know the one I mean, when you’re being watched by someone you can’t see? But you can feel it. My social skills might be lacking, but my intuition certainly is not.
Trying not to appear completely obvious, I casually scan the area around me.
But nothing.
My eyes pan out a bit further through the crowd, just as I spot a guy staring, with not a care in the world that he’s just been busted. Our eyes meet, but I reflexively turn the other way.
Wait, why do I feel embarrassed? I wasn’t the one staring. But my curiosity gets the best of me, so I turn back.
No more than fifty-feet away on the far side of the room, it’s my turn to admire the sights. This gorgeous stranger is sculpted like a marble statue with short, stylish chestnut hair (you know, the kind that’s all spiky and messy, but you still wanna run your fingers through it); dark, penetrating eyes that pierce your soul; full pink lips you instantly want to kiss; and crater-sized dimples that perfectly align an Italian, chiseled jaw line. Not to mention buff (but not overly) and rather tall—I’d say around six-three, six-four.
Can I just say, wow? He. Is. Perfection!
I’m not up on Greek mythology or anything, but if you ask me, Urban-Adonis comes to mind.
It’s not uncommon for me to squirm a bit when someone gawks at me, but this guy can stare away. With pleasure!
But why is he? I mean, I’m cute and all—but hardly pretty enough to deserve a Calvin Klein underwear model’s attention.
My gaze wanders up from his filled-out NY Yankee’s hoodie, our eyes lock and I’m compelled to hold it. I tingle from head-to-toe. But the longer I watch him, the more familiar he seems. There’s something about him. Have we met somewhere before?
Wait a minute—is he smiling at me now?
“Sorry about that. She would not stop talking.” Aunt Morgan grabs me by the elbow, pulling me—and my attention—away from momentary bliss. “Come on, we’d better get down to baggage claim before someone runs off with our skivvies.”
Tongue-tied, I turn back towards the hottie. But he’s gone.
Noooooooo!
My now saddened heart sinks beneath my worn-out flip-flops, eager to be trampled on for being such a spaz and missing out.
“Everything okay?” Aunt Morgan’s voice snaps me out of my pout.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just thought I saw someone I know.” Or rather, someone I wish I knew, and would willingly take a beating on a ten-mile-mud-run just to meet.
“Would you like to look around a bit?” She asks, as patient as only Aunt Morgan can be.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I haven’t been here in six years, so I’m sure it was just some warped hallucination.”
But I’m sure I’ll still kick myself in the ass later for not taking her up on the offer.
Half way down the corridor, I turn to look behind us, on the off chance he might have reappeared. But no luck. Oh well. It’s not like I really have time to meet guys with the shit-storm facing me this week.