Seer

by Ashley Maker

  Book Description

  When Clare Palmer accepts a scholarship to attend Evergreen, she thinks she's escaping her insane, estranged father, while also getting the chance to go to the school her late mother graduated from. Instead, she finds herself trapped in a scientifically-enhanced, combat-obsessed society called the Corasha who view her as a dangerous outsider.

  Clare views herself as an outsider, too. Unwilling to accept the outrageous claims of those around her, she's ready to get out of Evergreen at the first opportunity, until unwanted and unstable visible abilities begin to surface, confirming she's a Seer, a biological anomaly that's both prized and guarded by the Corasha. The only person who knows about her phasing is Kade, the attractive yet infuriating mentor she's now indebted to, but trusting him comes with a price her heart might not be willing to pay.

  Surrounded by dangerous secrets and hidden agendas, Clare must figure out who she can trust—and fast, because there's a war coming, and the last thing she wants is to become a weapon in the wrong hands.

  Seer

  Ashley Maker

  Copyright

  Seer

  Copyright © 2017 Ashley Maker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover design by Cover Couture

  Photos © Shutterstock

  Edited by Rachel Bateman, Rachel Oestreich, and Brittany Goodman

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  Discover Ashley Maker

  Website: http://ashleymaker.com

  Facebook: http://facebook.com/AuthorAshley

  Instagram: http://instagram.com/ashleymakerwrites

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/ashleymaker

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  Created with Vellum

  For Corey. This book would never have been finished without your help and encouragement. Thank you for all the late-night brainstorming sessions and the hours spent talking about martial arts, weaponry, and how to get past plot blocks. Most importantly, thank you for the tough love. I didn’t always want to hear it, but you knew when I needed to.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Ashley Maker

  1

  White wisps of breath unravel into the crisp night air, and I wish I could disappear with them. The chill of brass pricks my numb fingers as I turn the doorknob slowly, in tiny intervals, until the pressure splits and the front door eases open. Hope blooms as I slip through the gap. With one palm pressed flat against the cool steel door, I reseal myself into the house and wait.

  Please, please let him be sleeping.

  When nothing happens, I release a slow breath. If he were awake, he would have heard me come in. He would already be spazzing out, shouting at me to deadbolt the door, and then he’d peep out each of the blackout blinds until he was sure no one had followed me home.

  Nobody does paranoid quite like my father.

  Not that father is the right word to describe Chris Palmer, even if we do share the same genes.

  I slide the deadbolt home, wincing at how loud the scraping metal sounds, then slip out of my snow-wet sneakers and hug them to my chest with one arm so I won’t leave a trail of melting evidence. I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard to cover my tracks. No matter how long I’m gone or how careful I am, he always knows, and there’s always a lecture about how dangerous and reckless I’m being, as if a late-night run is somehow going to usher in the apocalypse.

  It’s become our routine, an unending game of me sneaking out and him catching me. Neither of us seem able to stop, and it’s his fault. If he would set a curfew like a normal parent, instead of always wanting me inside, I wouldn’t have to sneak out in the first place.

  Getting past him tonight will be tricky. The safety of my bedroom waits beyond a long stretch of hallway, the kitchen and living room both hazards I have to pass in order to reach it. Chris is always in the living room, bunkered down in the recliner by the woodstove, seething and crackling like the flickering fire about all the people who are supposedly out to get him.

  Balancing against the wall with my fingertips, I take a deep breath and pad across the linoleum floor. A soft glowing light emanates ahead, accompanied by the low hum of the television. Maybe he fell asleep in the chair watching TV. If I’m quiet, I can walk right by him. Or maybe I can duck into the kitchen and crawl beside the cabinets to get to the hallway on the other side—

  A blurred movement makes me jump.

  The hall light flares on, glaring into my eyes, making me cringe. Rough hands appear, latching onto the front of my windbreaker and hauling me against the wall. The air leaves my lungs in one big gush. My sneakers drop and thud onto the linoleum.

  “See how easy they can get you?” Chris asks, then lets go of me so quickly I lose my balance and slump down, my back skidding along the wood paneling.

  Has he lost his mind? I scowl and rub my still-burning eyes.

  Sounding suspicious, he asks, “What’s wrong with your eyes? Did you see something?”

  “I did not see something!” I glare at him. “You blinded me with the light, genius.”

  He grabs my upper arm and yanks me to my feet. The stench of his breath fans across my face, reeking of whiskey. I scrunch my nose and try to jerk away, but his grip only tightens. “No matter what I say, you don’t seem to get it. How many times do I have to tell you not to leave this house? I can’t save you from the Dark Ones if you’re out there.”

  Pain throbs beneath his fingers. I roll my eyes. Of course he brings them up. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t mention the infamous Dark Ones. I keep waiting for him to move on to the next dire threat to mankind, like imaginary friends or monsters under the bed.
<
br />   “Stop acting like you care. You’re crazy and drunk.”

  With a short, harsh laugh, Chris curls his lip. “You think I don’t care? I went after you. For over ten years, I looked for you! I only stopped because I thought you were dead. She’s the one who took you away, not me.”

  “Yeah, and it sure seems like you’re thrilled to have me now.” I roll my eyes again. When the social worker told me they’d found my father, I had hoped he would be normal. Instead, I got this. “No wonder my mom ran away from you.”

  His blue eyes flash hard and gray, and I almost wish I hadn’t said anything.

  “Sarah didn’t run away because of me. She knew they’d try to find you.” His voice lowers to a grating whisper. “They’re still coming, Clare.”

  I know better than to let his rambling get to me, but I can’t stop the slithery feeling that spider-walks its way across my skin, making even my eyes feel shivery. I shift against his grip and stare at him so hard everything except his face goes out of focus, the edges blurring, but I don’t look away. I don’t even blink.

  He does.

  Eyes widening, he pulls me closer, his gaze flashing from one of my eyes to the other. Then he surprises me by not saying anything at all. He lets go of my arm and stalks to his rarely used bedroom, slamming the door.

  Finally, I blink.

  I blink again. There’s a stinging in both eyes that’s not going away, no matter how many times I open and close them. Frowning at the stupid light on the ceiling, I rub my eyes with one hand.

  My insides squirm with restless energy, making me feel like I’ll explode the longer I stand still. The path to my bedroom is clear now, but I don’t move toward the hallway. Doing so would bring me closer to Chris. Instead, I march straight to the front door and unbolt the lock. I heave the steel open, cross the threshold, and slam the door shut, not even bothering to be quiet. Let him come and yell at me. I don’t care. The cold bites at my skin, but I hardly feel it. I’m halfway down the porch steps before I realize my sneakers are still inside. Only then do I register the frigid air and snow seeping through my socks.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I could go back inside to get my shoes, but what’s the point? There’s nowhere to go. Chris’ fortified house is hidden amid acres of trees in the middle of nowhere. Running up and down the dirt driveway gets old after a while. And I’m tired, muscles still aching from the run before. All the anger and restlessness is suddenly gone, replaced by such heaviness I can’t stand underneath it. I slump onto the top porch step and stare at the smooth snow in the yard.

  The snow is perfect and untouched, and I want to destroy it. I want to build snow angels and hurl snowballs and stomp across the pristine white canvas until my footprints cover every inch in undeniable proof that I was outside. Oh, how Chris would love that.

  But I don’t do it.

  Not because of Chris, but because the last time I played in the snow was with Mom. Last winter we built a snow cat instead of a snowman, and started an igloo we never finished, because neither of us knew how to build one, and we always gave up before getting to the roof. There would be no half-finished igloo this winter. Or snow cats. Or movie marathons on the couch with homemade no-bake cookies and mugs of hot chocolate. All of that disappeared when she did, and I miss it.

  I miss her.

  More than ever, I want Chris, the police, the detectives, the social workers—and anyone else who dares to say she’s gone forever—to be wrong. Because if they’re not, I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep living like this. Something has to change before I lose my mind.

  Before I’m as crazy as Chris and just as hopeless.

  2

  The next morning, an impressively muscled man wearing black sunglasses stands in the kitchen, not two feet from the row of white cabinets that had been my destination before I spotted him. He’s not alone. Another middle-aged man, one who doesn’t look like he took steroids instead of vitamins as a child, sits across the round table from Chris. The two of them stop talking and look at me while I hesitate in the doorway, leaning against the white trim for support.

  I should have worn something other than a faded tank top and an old pair of running shorts to bed last night. The three sets of eyes, all of them fixed on me, make me want to pull at the short hem.

  “Miss Palmer,” the man by Chris says slowly, pronouncing my name like a question. Even after two months, it sounds strange, and I have to remind myself that Palmer is my last name now, instead of Brown.

  When I don’t respond, the man stands and approaches with one hand extended. “Allow me to introduce myself. You may call me Mathias.”

  What a weird name. And he looks kind of weird, too, with smooth white hair reaching almost to his shoulders. To top it off, he’s wearing a black suit and looks like he’s going to a funeral. Actually, so does the other man. Black suit. Black tie. Black sunglasses.

  They remind me of the FBI.

  I don’t shake his hand. Surely they’re not the FBI.

  Mathias withdraws the gesture. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

  Leaning to the left, I raise an eyebrow at Chris for some kind of explanation. Instead of his usual jeans and white cotton T-shirt, he’s wearing khakis and a button down. I didn’t even know he owned khaki pants.

  Our eyes meet. “What’s going on, Dad? Who are these people?”

  He gives me an intense look, one so sharp I know he hasn’t touched the alcohol cabinet yet. Surprising, since it’s after eight in the morning. “Mathias is the headmaster of a private school that he’d like for you to attend.”

  “What school?”

  “It’s a boarding school for gifted students.” Mathias’ lips quirk into a half-smile. “Both of your parents are graduates.”

  My heart thumps almost painfully. Mom never told me she and Chris went to school together. “Wait, both of my parents? Are you saying my mom went there?”

  “Yes. In fact, I knew Sarah personally. We graduated within two years of each other. I was very sorry to hear of her passing.”

  “She’s not dead,” I say automatically. “They never found her body. She might come back.”

  “Of course.” He smiles, but there’s no warmth in his brown eyes. It’s the same pitying smile the police and the social workers wore, and it makes me want to scream. “Your father told me he’d been planning to homeschool you, like your mother did.”

  To imprison me, more like. I glance at Chris again, who is nodding absently and rubbing a hand across his pursed lips. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my mouth shut. Mom took me to homeschooling groups and play dates as a child. For the last two years, I’d even attended a weekly co-op that had a cross country track team. Chris, on the other hand, had made it perfectly clear there’d be none of that under his supervision. I’d be lucky to get access to a computer, much less interact with actual people. Now he’s changing his mind and wants me to go to some special school?

  “Evergreen is a unique institution,” Mathias says. “Our students usually start attending at the age of eleven, but under the circumstances, we’d like to offer you a special invitation since both of your parents are alumni. What do you say?”

  Oh yeah, sure. Like I know what to say to that.

  Chris doesn’t look at me or even try to convince me to stay. I can’t believe he can be so indifferent after thinking I was dead for so many years. What happened to all his pretty words last night about caring and searching for me?

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course.” Mathias smiles. “However, if you wish to go, we need to leave before noon. I have a full schedule.”

  Startled at such a quick deadline, and eager to get away from their prying eyes, I nod and retrace my steps down the hall to my room, desperately needing a moment to figure out what is going on. Once I’m there, I close myself in and sit cross-legged on the bed. My gaze wanders over the few belongings Chris let me bring when I moved into his house. The sn
ow globe Mom gave me when I was ten. The little picture album on the dresser. My clothes. A few books. Most of it would fit into a single bag. Almost from the very first moment I got here, my plan has been to leave.

  Going to their gifted school would speed up the plan, but it doesn’t make a ton of sense why they want me. I’ve always been a B-average student. Not bad, but nothing special either. They must be really proud of their alumni to go to such lengths to recruit wayward offspring. Or maybe they get an incentive if multi-generational families attend or something. But how did they even know I live with Chris now? If Mom also went to the school, why didn’t they come recruiting back when she was still alive?

  None of it makes sense, but it can’t be that bad if it gets me away from Chris. The thought of voluntarily staying with him for another year and a half makes me want to stick bamboo shoots under my fingernails. Anywhere would be better than his house.

  Before I can make up my mind, the door swings open, and Chris barges in.

  “Have you made a decision,” he asks.

  “Wow, thanks for knocking.” I roll my eyes. I’ve barely been alone for five minutes, and he’s already pressuring me.

  Chris sighs, sounding more resigned than annoyed. “Do you want to go to Evergreen?”