One

by Mari Arden

  ONE

  MARI ARDEN

  "One" Copyright © 2013 by Melinda Yang

  Cover design by Regina Wamba at MaeIDesign and Photography, L.L.C

  Editing: Becky from Hot Tree Editing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Flame

  Excerpt from "Flame"

  Dedications

  About the Author

  OTHER BOOKS BY MARI ARDEN

  Young Adult

  The Fireborn series

  Flame (book one)

  Blaze (book two) coming soon

  New Adult

  One

  To anyone who ever thought they couldn't.

  You can.

  PROLOGUE

  I follow him.

  The dark shadow is hard to see because he blends in so easily like a natural predator. If I squint my eyes, I can make out the sharp outline. I imagine seeing the dark rectangular spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. I imagine his lips curled in a gentle smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. I watch as he slips into the house like the phantom he is.

  The house doesn't look menacing. It looks normal. A rural colonial home. Beautiful, grandiose- but something stirs inside. The curtains are closed, but I imagine there are lights on. I imagine there are people moving, silent as he is.

  I need to get in. It goes against every instinct inside me. Grandma says I'm a survivor, and she's right. I've survived when all I've wanted to do was crumble. I've stayed when I desperately wanted to run. I've closed my eyes, and gritted my teeth through it all because I'm a survivor.

  Tonight, it ends.

  Not letting myself think too much longer, I move. I've never been so grateful to be small. I easily hide my body in the bushes, inching my way closer to the back. A house this size should have many entrances, I reason. My rational brain is trying to think of a plan. My eyes scan the home, trying to notice darker, shadowed places, and an entryway someone would take pains to hide. Eventually, I conclude I'm too far away. I need to get closer. My heart is racing wildly, picking up speed with each step, but I don't give in. I fight for every step. I swallow my instincts to run, to just accept what my life has become. I push those urges aside, shoving them to the back of my brain as I mentally chant, find a way inside, find a way inside…

  I'm less than ten feet away behind a parked tractor. I'm so close I can smell the smoke from a recently extinguished cigarette bud mixed with something husky. Sweat, maybe. I put a hand to my chest, trying to steady the erratic rhythm. I don't dare breathe too loud in case they hear me. I know what they do to people they hear.

  Breathing in through my nose, I look up, making sure that only my forehead and eyes are showing. Much better. I have a good view of the side and the back. There's a back door, but a large man stands in front of it, leaning his broad back against one of the columns. My eyes continue to search. I know these men well enough to know there are many ways in.

  Green vines circle the massive home, shrouding it like a cloaked secret. In the daytime the house is beautiful, sparkling almost. The plants surrounding the home give it an unearthly glow, as if the people who reside inside are not quite human. I noticed earlier the curtains are closed, and I suspect windows are probably sealed shut too even though it's ungodly humid. My eyes roam past the columns in the front of the building, and past the long rectangular windows to the polished back porch, gleaming underneath a full moon. My eyebrows meet in the middle as I focus on a protruding floorboard at a diagonal angle from the ground. It's been colored to match the porch, and I might have passed it if it weren't for the shaft of light reflected from the moon being cut at an odd angle. It must lead to a basement, I reason. It has to.

  Doubt quivers, but I plunge ahead anyway. I try to imagine I'm a panther, stalking a prey. The image makes me feel stronger, a little less cowardly. I've learned that sometimes survivors have to be cowards. Sometimes they have to stay small.

  I lift the floorboard up and slip inside, stealth as a cat. I land on my feet in a dark hallway. I hear voices, low murmers I can't decipher. I take a single step forward and that's when I smell it: something rotting. Something burning. The smell is so strong, assailing my senses so heavily that my stomach revolts. I cover my mouth with my hands, gagging into my palms. The sounds are muffled, but I'm terrified someone might have heard it. Briskly, I move, positioning my back to the wall, making myself as invisible as possible. I stay in the shadows. With each step, I take the smell becomes stronger, creating waves of nausea that roll inside me like a storm.

  I reach a door. My stomach gurgles. Move, I command my legs. Walk. My feet don't cooperate. They want to stay glued to the wooden floor. Maybe they're reacting to what a part of me already knows.

  There's something bad on the other side.

  I look at my hands, willing them to touch the knob, to turn it so I can sneak in. I need to know what's inside this house. Open the door, open the door, open the door… As if by magic, the knob starts to turn.

  I can't move.

  I can't breathe.

  He steps inside, the shadow in my nightmare.

  He looks surprised for a moment, but then it fades as fast as it comes. "Hello, Julianna," he greets me pleasantly. He closes the door, but not before I see what's inside, not before I see everything.

  I gasp, and my legs won't stay standing anymore. I crumble like a pile of ashes, falling to the floor without a sound. "What have you done?" I whisper.

  His face is impassive, unmoving. "This is none of your concern, Julianna." He says the words as if we're talking about the weather, about the food inside Max's Diner. He's talking as if he's a god, and the problems of the mortals don't matter. "You shouldn't be here."

  No, I shouldn't. No one should. I shake my head slowly, the movement almost painful to make because my body is frozen with dread. "What have you done?" I repeat again.

  "I'm sorry it has come to this," he sighs, and it almost sounds believable. Almost. "You were always such a good girl. Always so obedient. I'm sorry you won't be able to leave tonight." He walks toward me. Braidon's face flashes inside my head.

  Survival kicks in. "Please," I squeak. I lower my eyes in a submissive pose, flickering over his body.

  "Julianna." His voice is de
ceptively gentle. "We can't remain ghosts if someone sees us, now, can we?" He crouches, and his fingers are tight around my arms as he forces me up. I keep looking down. I am small. I am small. I am small.

  "Look at me, Julianna." I flinch, but I lock my gaze with his. "I am sorry, chica, I really am." There's a glimmer in his eyes. It isn't sorrow. He reaches to his side to grab the gun attached there. His hands touch an empty holster.

  The weapon is cool against my palm. My hands are shaking as I aim it into his stomach. He freezes when he feels the point of the gun. "Move back," I command. My voice wavers. It doesn't sound strong. I'm not strong. I'm desperate.

  He looks surprised at what I've managed to do, but he does as I instruct, holding his hands up in a non- threatening gesture. He cocks an eyebrow. "Very smooth. You belong with us-"

  "Don't," I break in angrily. Don't you dare.

  He pauses, but he doesn't push more.

  "I'm not what you are," I deny.

  "Sometimes we don't become what we expect."

  "A monster?" I grate out.

  The pleasant, almost nonchalant expression on his face hardens. "Drop the gun, Julianna."

  I shake my head again. For a moment, I almost let the gun fall to the floor. For a moment I contemplate forgetting what I saw. But then I see the truth in his eyes.

  One of us will not survive this night.

  I stand straighter, making up my mind. I'm a survivor.

  There isn't time to hesitate.

  I pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER 1

  I smell the smoke first.

  It's heavy and thick, traveling to the sky like a stairway connecting heaven and earth. Even though it's dark, I wish I could swirl away with it, drifting into mists and skies instead of bound beneath, attached to my troubles.

  "Are you just going to stand there and stare at smoke all day?" Nat's voice breaks into my thoughts. I can feel her behind me. She's a bundle of energy, and her foot's tapping the ground in irritation.

  "Maybe."

  "Girl, the party is inside, not here. We're missing the action!" Nat clasps my shoulders, turning me around. "I'd leave you right here to talk to the air if I could, but this is the biggest party of the year and anyone who wants to be somebody is inside." She points to the large house behind us. We're a few miles off campus on a hill overlooking the city. From this distance, I can see Library Mall, the center of UW-Madison. Usually, it's brimming with people, but tonight it's silent. Even the circular fountain is turned off, unmoving and quiet. I remember walking through Library Mall two months ago when I first arrived. I'd breathed in the air and felt small among the towering buildings. I used to hate that feeling, but it didn't feel too bad here. It didn't feel like something was trying to consume me.

  Loud laughter drifts over, and something heavy falls with a thud. More cackling follows. Instead of smiling, I hug myself, turning back to look out below. I'd come out for some fresh air. It was packed tighter than a chicken house inside with adrenaline bubbling everywhere. I'm not excited to go back when I have so much to think about.

  "Can't you just go inside and become a ‘somebody’ for me instead?" I suggest vaguely, my eyes tracing the dark buildings. My fingers itch to put it on paper. I'd paint the sharp edges of each building a dark blue, and rub them until each faded into the night sky, like giant creatures awakening.

  Nat pushes her face closer to me, abruptly shaking me from the picture in my head. Her narrowed eyes are my refusal. "My psychiatrist says I have a savior complex, and unfortunately it's kicking in high gear right now. I'm physically unable to leave you up here and face possible social suicide. It feels just like that one time I had to wear my great aunt Gladys's sweater she owned from fifty years ago. It was the only thing that fit me after I'd vomited all over my clothes. It was awful." She wrinkles her nose. "And putrid smelling."

  "I didn't know your savior complex comes with a smell, too."

  "It does," she answers instantly. Linking her elbows with mine, she pulls me behind her. I resist because the last thing I want to do is go back. She gives me a strange look as if she can't figure me out. Shouldn't I like this? Shouldn't I be happy she brought me? Aren't I normal? It's that last thought that makes me bite my lips, and stiffen my spine. Out here, I'm just a girl, I remind myself. I'm Jules Hendricks and I am going to enjoy this party even if I have to chug another tequila shot to make that happen.

  Still, another sensible part of me rebels, sending practical thoughts into my head; things like how am I going to survive until my first paycheck comes through? Will I have to sell my art tools? Mentally, I flip through everything I own. It's meager, but I quickly conclude I can do with a couple less shirts and my comforter. I might be able to get ten dollars for everything. I'm good at stretching money. It'll last me a week, and then I'll have to figure out what to do next after that.

  "All right." My words come out fast because I'm close to changing my mind, and if I don't get my reply out quickly, I'll turn back and make the lonely walk back to our dorm room. I gesture ahead. "Lead the way."

  The house is gigantic, with a curving driveway that I imagine fancy cars driving through, opening to reveal equally glamorous women inside. I brush away any grass debris that might be on my jean bottoms, and follow Nat to the front door. We don't talk. The noise is too loud for that. Instead, I take a deep breath and step after Nat as she enters.

  A winding staircase greets us. It would be majestic looking if there weren't two dozen young people on it. A few are sitting on the stair rail, dangling their feet above us. I see at least two couples making out, oblivious to the noise and the walking spectators passing by. Nat and I had taken a quick tour earlier, and I remember the place having six bathrooms. Six! It seems like a giant waste of money to me, but then a lot of things seem like a waste when you grow up as poor as I did.

  There were several bedrooms upstairs, but the doors were closed during our tour and we were told to stay below. There are two living rooms with one speaker in each room, and an informal DJ spinning tunes from people I've never heard of. It's crowded in each room, and that's probably why people have spilled out onto the staircase and the foyer, dancing like they're in a club.

  Nat gestures that we're going to take another shot. She probably sees how wound up I am. She takes me into the kitchen where a self-proclaimed drink "scientist" is concocting cocktails and mixed shots for guests. I watched him earlier. There was no science to what he was doing. He closed his eyes, pointed to a few bottles and poured them together into a cocktail shaker. He takes his role seriously though. There's a pair of goggles hanging around his neck, and his dark hair is spiked up to emulate a crazed scientist.

  "Two of the specials for her and me," Nat tells him once we reach the kitchen island. She winks at me.

  He grins. "Coming right up." His words sound a little slurred. I almost want to ask if he's okay, but I doubt I'd get a coherent answer. I watch him take a bottle of vodka and a bottle of something dark. Rum, Nat mouths to me, careful not to disturb the scientist. He pours both into two red plastic cups. Then he adds juice. A second later he opens a can of Pepsi. Nat sees the disgusted expression on my face because she tells me not to look. She covers our eyes until we hear the words "Done!" When she lifts her fingers, I see two glasses brimming with a dark liquid.

  The scientist sticks a pink straw in each. "For color," he says.

  Nat nudges my shoulder. She picks up one cup, and waits for me to grab the other one. Her eyes are bright. I want to ask her if she's okay, too, but I know she'd laugh and swipe my concern away. Sometimes I wish I could be like her. I'd be able to laugh at my problems, and enjoy the warmth of the sun instead of worrying what will happen when the clouds take over.

  Nat lifts her cup. "To trying something new- even if it does look hazardous to our health," she laughs indicating her cup.

  "To trying something new," I echo.

  We touch the edges of our cups together. Some liquid spills out, but I don't lick it off
. I bring the cup to my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut as I prepare to swallow. Even if my mind is telling me this isn't a good idea, my body wants this release. It wants the stress to uncoil with every ounce of heat created by the alcohol. I don't pause to take a breath as I lift my head up, chugging the drink as if it's water, refusing to allow myself to feel the burn down my throat even though I'm convinced fire is erupting inside me. When there is only ice left, I set the cup down, pushing it away. My fingers cover my mouth until I've swallowed every last drop.

  Nat watches me with an impressed look on her face. She takes longer to finish, but when she does she wipes her mouth, grinning. "Are you sure this is your first time drinking? You look like a pro."

  I make an incredulous sound. "Yes," I say. "Very much, yes." The liquid is traveling down my body. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. I even feel it in my head, a tingly sensation like the flutter of a moth's wing inside my skull. To new things, I repeat to myself. Nat takes my hand, and she looks happy she's here with me. I wasn't her first choice. Her friend bailed on her at the last minute, and since I was around she asked me, practically begging me when I hesitated.

  "I don't want to go alone," she wailed, touching my fingers. "Come on, roommate. Pretty please?" Eventually, I succumbed, laughing when she made her eyes puppy wide and threatened to go on all fours. I like Nat. There's no second-guessing. She wears her thoughts on her face. She doesn't ask a lot of questions. She's never still enough to think about them.

  Nat pulls me into one of the living rooms. There's no furniture except two large barrels for trash. A mountain of empty red cups is inside, and the smell of alcohol permeates the air, filling my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose, but the smells are so strong I'll never be able to get them out. A disco ball shines in the center. People are swaying, jumping up and down, throwing their head in the air like beach balls at a pool party. I move in front of Nat, and she starts dancing, turning around several times, giddy with the rush of spinning. I watch her, awkward, but then I imagine I'm a dove flying and my arms feel lighter. I lift them up and sway gently to the hard music.