Forget Me Not

by Stacey Nash

  Forget Me Not

  Collective Series #1

  Stacey Nash

  Forget Me Not

  Copyright © 2014, Stacey Nash

  All rights reserved. Ebooks are not transferable. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Emily Ward

  Cover Art by Fiona Jayde

  Book design by Tricia Kristufek

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Entranced Publishing, LLC electronic publication: 2014

  Entranced Publishing, LLC

  Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States of America

  www.entrancedpublishing.com

  Table of Contents

  Back Cover Copy

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Act I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Act II

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Act III

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sneak Peak of Remember Me

  About the Author

  Back Cover Copy

  Fiction is Fact. Know the Truth.

  Since her mother vanished nine years ago, Anamae and her father have shared a quiet life. But when Anamae discovers a brooch identical to her mother’s favorite pendant, she unknowingly invites a slew of trouble into their world. Because when the brooch and the pendant are worn together, they’re no longer pretty pieces of jewelry—they’re part of a highly developed technology capable of cloaking the human form. Triggering the jewelry’s power attracts the attention of a secret society determined to confiscate the device—and deal with everyone who is aware of its existence. Anamae knows too much, and now she’s Enemy Number One.

  She’s forced to leave her father behind when she’s taken in by a group determined to keep her safe. Here Anamae searches for answers about this hidden world. With her father kidnapped and her own life on the line, Anamae must decide if saving her dad is worth risking her new friends’ lives. No matter what she does, somebody is going to get hurt.

  Dedication:

  For my husband: without your love and encouragement, this story would never have been written.

  Acknowledgements:

  There’s an old saying: it takes a village to raise a child. Well, sometimes it takes a community to write a book and I need to say thank you to my writing community. My writers group, who provide the support only a face to face group can. Especially SE Gilchrist, who was Forget Me Not’s very first reader—I’m sorry you read that awful first draft. Thank you for being the lovely person you are and telling me it was wonderful. My online friends; the Aussie Owned and Read girls, my fabulous critique partners, Lauren McKellar, Katie Hamstead, JM Bray and the countless beta readers who read this story at various stages. Forget Me Not wouldn’t be the story it is without each and every one of you. A special mention to my right hand CP and dear writing friend, Anabel, who provides friendship and support on a daily basis. Without our regular texts, brainstorming sessions, and crisis interventions, I would have fallen off this path long ago.

  The whole team at Entranced Publishing, who are not only fabulous to work with, but took a chance on a brand-new author. Thank you for having faith in me and in Anamae’s story. A special thanks to my fabulous editor Emily Ward, who truly is the best.

  And last but certainly not least, my family. Thank you to my mother for instilling a love of reading and books in me at a young age. You never discouraged my antisocial obsessive reading. It’s because of you that I love words. Thank you to my father who without the hours of debate growing up I’d never have imagined the massive conspiracy theory that is The Collective. And the biggest thank you to my ever supportive husband and soundboard, Dave. Without your encouragement and support I never would have written a single word. I’m sorry for all the dirty dishes and late nights while drafting this story consumed me. I love you.

  ACT I

  Hidden Knowledge

  All we know is still infinitely less than all that still remains unknown.

  ~ William Harvey

  Chapter One

  IT’S NOT GETTING ANY easier to tell my mother what’s happened, what she’s missed, what’s been going on in my life. It’s not getting any easier to survive each day without her. It’s not getting any easier to think of her and not cry. Elbow on my writing desk and chin cupped in my hand, I stare at the yellow notepaper. The lines across it are as empty as my pounding head. The spot where the tip of my favorite pen touches is marked by a growing dot, evidence that there are no right words.

  It’s not getting any easier.

  Hoping to find inspiration, I glance at the photo waiting to be slipped into the envelope with this letter. Normally I put aside a nature shot for her, but this one’s a ‘selfie’ of me and Will. His sandy hair looks kind of messy the way it falls into his bright eyes, and his arm, resting over my shoulders so naturally, pulls us close together. Our grins say more than words ever can.

  Twirling the pen between my fingers, I gaze out the window at the soft autumn afternoon and daydream about what to write. A distant clang like metal against metal sounds from outside. Will must be at it again. I shoot up, lean over the desk, and raise the window, letting a rush of warm air brush my face.

  His jean clad legs stick out from under the hood of a beat-up car parked in their yard. That car is like a full time job, he works on it so often now. He backs out and hoists a motor, or something, onto his shoulder, lifting like it weighs no more than his kid sister. He looks up, catches me watching him, and grins. I wave and, with a sigh, plonk back into the chair, dropping my gaze to the blank sheet in front of me. I really want to write her.

  For nine years I’ve been writing these letters and placing them in my top drawer with a photo. It’s become a yearly tradition. At least if we ever find Mom, she’ll know what my life’s been like.

  Nothing comes to me. None of the thoughts ambling through my mind are quite right. I drop the pen, pinch my lips together, and tap my fingers on the desk in a sharp rhythm that cuts through my aching head. I need the right words.

  I last saw her on an ordinary March school day the year I was eight. She packed my lunch, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and waved goodbye. I climbed into the bus. As she stood on the curb, she didn’t look happy or sad, scared or frightened—just the same as any other day.

  Heaviness squeezes my chest and makes each inhalation of breath hurt. I’ve played that day back in my mind over and over, analyzed every detail: her wave, her smile, her words, her haunted look. Did she know it was goodbye?

  Not knowing leaves a complete emptiness inside me. Knowing if she’s alive or dead, or why she hasn’t come back would make it so much easier.
Especially since Dad barely mentions her anymore, and no matter how many times I turn her photos around, they continue to spin and face the wall. I guess it’s just too hard for him.

  I shake my head in an effort to expel the memories, but it’s no use. The lines on the paper blur, my eyes slide shut, and it hurts too much. I can’t do this right now. Grabbing my camera off the desk, I slam the window shut and run down the stairs, shouting to Dad, “I’ll be back for dinner.”

  “Wait. Can you grab milk?”

  He walks out of the kitchen, a five dollar bill pinched between his fingers. I pluck it from his outstretched hand and turn to leave, but his hand closes over my shoulder, spinning me around. “Everything okay?”

  I close my eyes and expel a long breath. He won’t want to hear it, so there’s no point sharing. His words surprise me, though. “I miss her too.”

  He pulls me into his chest, and it’s too much. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I throw my arms around him, holding him as tight as I can while he runs a hand over my head. “Sweetheart.”

  I cling to him. “It’s just….”

  “I know.”

  He holds me for a long time, until my tears stop. When I pull away, I rub the telltale wet streaks from my cheeks, and shove the money in my pocket. “Milk, right?”

  He nods, and I turn for the door.

  “Anamae,” he says, “I love you, kid.”

  A weak smile raises my lips. “Love you too.”

  Outside, I head straight to the white picket fence separating our yard from Will’s. He’s been my best friend since he moved here in the sixth grade, and I’m so grateful his parents decided quiet suburbia was a better place to live than the inner city. I slap my hands onto the flat tips and stretch over, calling, “Will.”

  He peers around the corner of the house, and the sight of his smile is enough to rattle this awful mood.

  “Want to get a coffee?” I ask.

  “Sure. Two minutes.”

  Fishing for weeds in the garden occupies the time while I wait. The Averys have the nicest yard on our street. A perfectly manicured lawn complete with stone statues and spiky plants in white pebble gardens. Will’s mom likes being fashionable and modern, obvious from the gravel now crunching under his feet. Appearances aren’t important. Sure it’s nice to look good, but it’s not the thing that matters most. That’s one of the things she just doesn’t get about me. I always wear faded jeans and comfy T-shirts, yet she constantly tries to dress me up. Make me look like a girl. Still, she’s been like a second mom to me. She even gave me The Talk. I just about died when I realized what was happening.

  Will’s coming. “Hi, Mae.”

  “Hey.” I grin. Love it when he shortens my name.

  We stroll down our wide path and turn onto the next street. It’s only a few blocks from our street to a small cluster of shops. The short walk, fresh air, and Will’s banter help lighten my mood. The cafe comes into sight, and I grab his hand, dragging him across the road toward another storefront—an old shop. Aqua paint peels off the brick walls around huge glass windows, and two stories rise up above us. Like all the shops on this street, a big tin awning slants out over the pavement, and a balcony juts out above. Albert’s Second-Hand Treasures emblazons a window spanning the shop’s front. You can see through the window that piles of odd stuff clutter the inside. According to the kids at school, it’s evidence the old man who owns the store is a little unhinged, which earns this place the nickname, Crazy Al’s. But to me, it’s far more than that. ‘Crazy Al’s’ been a part of my life almost as long as Will.

  “Bet you can’t find the weirdest one today,” I say.

  Will raises his brows and shoots me a look that says ‘you’re insane.’ “Really, this old game? I thought you wanted to get coffee.”

  “Oh, come on. I need some childish fun.” I lean in toward him and smile. “Bet you can’t win.”

  I also need to see Al, not to talk… just see him. He’s grandfatherly ways might make me feel better.

  I drag Will toward the front door, and all the while he shakes his head and scuffs his heels. “Okay, but loser buys coffee,” he finally says, “and cake.”

  He pushes me through the door, making the bell overhead jingle. As he heads toward a large table in the far corner of the shop, a small smile crosses my lips. Glancing toward the counter, I stop at a long bench and paw through ancient yellowing books and old jewelry scattering it in a disorganized mess. I’ve no idea how Al even knows what’s here.

  Al raises his white-grey frizzy-haired head from the newspaper sprawled on the glass counter. His bushy eyebrows lift, and he throws me a warm smile which somehow makes me feel a little better.

  Running my hand over the ‘treasures,’ I stop at a ceramic owl perched amongst the clutter on the table. When I turn it over in my hand, chubby little claws grip the sides of a skateboard. I hold it up so Will can see it. “Check this out.”

  “A skating owl?” Will laughs. “I can top that.”

  He holds up a book with the title Peanuts in Love. On the cover two peanuts hold hands, their cute little shell bodies in a sea of pink hearts.

  “Not good enough.” I scan the table looking for something better. A pile of old movies are scattered over the next table. I move them aside one by one, looking for a good title. Sunlight dances across the table and glints off something shiny. A shiny blue flower with a yellow center. My heart jumps, the only part of me still moving. It can’t be. Surely Dad didn’t pawn it or give it to Al. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It can’t possibly have been made into something else.

  A small noise of surprise escapes my lax mouth, and a memory flashes into my mind: the pendant lying on Mom’s pillow the day she disappeared.

  Will chuckles from the corner. I drag my gaze away from the flower brooch to see a bright pink pith hat sitting atop his sandy head. He eyes my open palm, which now holds the brooch. “You call that weird?”

  I run my fingers over the cool glazed metal, and a lump grows in my throat. “It’s the same as the forget-me-not pendant Mom always wore.”

  Not missing a beat, he raises his voice toward the back of the shop. “How much?”

  Al pauses in his perusal of the paper, two fingertips touching his tongue as if to dampen them as he flicks a page over. His bushy eyebrows lift, and he clears his throat.

  “Gosh, lad, for that?” I hold up the brooch, and Al squints at it. “It’s for Mae?” He smiles at me.

  “Yep.” Will pulls his wallet out, and empties the coins into his cupped hand.

  “Nothing,” Al says, then flicks his gaze to me. “Tell your Dad poker’s on tomorrow night. All the boys are coming.”

  I return his smile with a nod. “Sure thing, Al.”

  “Take care, Mae.” He doesn’t mention today’s Mom’s anniversary—the day she disappeared, but he doesn’t have to. Even though he never knew her, I’ve always suspected it’s why he took me and Dad under his wing. Especially after Nan died; her death upended the last slither of normalcy we had.

  “No refunds….” Al says.

  “Without magic,” I chime in on his usual farewell. No wonder people think he’s crazy, since he’s always saying stupid things. A sign hangs on the wall above the counter mimicking his words. No refunds without magic.

  We walk out the door, and the bell jingles. “You owe me cake,” Will says.

  “I do not. The brooch won.”

  “No way, the peanuts definitely—”

  “The peanuts did not beat the skating owl,” I say, and we both laugh.

  I want to go home. I want to go straight to mom’s pendant. I want to compare it to this brooch, but I promised Will cake and coffee. He’d understand, but it wouldn’t be fair after dragging him out here. Although it makes me a little impatient, I’ll wait.

  * * * *

  After hanging out with Will, I climb the stairs into the rarely used, cold, dark attic. Goose bumps prickle my arms with each step. This place is so eerie. Holding my han
d out, I grope around in the dark until it closes around the cord for the light switch. A sharp tug illuminates the room with a soft glow which highlights the dust floating in the air. Pressure builds in my nose, and I hold my breath to suppress a building sneeze.

  A corner of the chest which holds all my mother’s most precious possessions peeks out from behind cardboard boxes. I need to see the pendant and make sure it hasn’t somehow been altered and made into this brooch. Something so precious to her can’t be lost. A wooden creaking noise makes me spin around so fast my neck kinks, but the entry is empty. Phew. If Dad catches me up here… don’t think about it. He won’t know, as long as the driveway stays empty of his car.

  A tight knot grows in my chest, anyway. An image of Mom running her thumb over the charm she wore everyday lingers in my mind.

  I ease open the lid of the chest. Love letters, a few small items of jewelry, and other precious odds and ends rest on top of a discolored wedding dress, as if every last item was placed in here with care. Dust and the smell of moth balls make my nose twitch and finally bring on the sneeze.

  Blue fabric, the same color as the brooch, peeps out between a stack of old envelopes. I slide it out of the bunch with care and peel back the fabric, my fingers slipping on the soft, smooth silk. My breath catches at the sight of my mother’s pendant.

  My memories of it remained unchanged by time. It’s exactly as I recall. Five blue petals come to a yellow center, creating the shape of a forget-me-not flower. The pendant hangs on a long chain with shiny, silver looped links.

  The sight of it brings back so many memories. The only time I ever saw my parents fight… Mom shouted so loud I covered my ears, and Dad responded in a low emotionless voice. Young and scared, I hid in the curtains while she screamed. Her last words were punctuated by her yanking the pendant off and tossing it across the room. Dad scooped it up, crossed the room in long strides and pulled her to him. His fingers traced the edge of her face before he kissed her. He lowered the pendant over her head, and the angry lines on her face melted into a smile. It’s not exactly a good memory, but it was her.