“I know.”
“Close the blinds and the door and give it here for a minute. There's something I need to show you.” She waved at me, beckoning for the book I was already handing her.
The tattered leather-bound tome was a compilation of all the knowledge our family had obtained over the centuries.
I knew she wouldn't keep it from me, but even if she did, it didn't matter. I had already memorized its contents, my blood stains on its pages with the attempts I had made to expand my powers.
She could see the scars for herself but said nothing. She knew what it took to control such abilities. Blood was a simple sacrifice. Our lives, however, served a greater purpose. A purpose the Führer and the Red Death were all too willing to use to their advantage.
A living army of sorcerers and enchanters, once hidden among the common ranks of man, hid from the heinous reach of the government now that we had been ranked and quartered.
“Page eleven,” she said simply, her eyes darting between the window and the door, waiting for someone, or something, to come through.
Most people behaved this way nowadays, even without the cancer involved. The Third Night had taken our liberty away as human beings, leaving us as shells of our former selves. Cloaked in mud and our own filth with each day that came anew, the remaining classes took to hiding beneath the civilized part of society that remained, living in the deserted sewers and flood drains lurking beneath North Cannon.
St. Mary's Catholic Hospital was one of only three facilities in the entire state that permitted Red Death survivors. The liability was one thing. The care another. Each patient could cost a Blue or Hazel life in prison while the usage of medicine could cost them their life in general.
One of the first memories I had of the Red Death occurred while I was volunteering at St. Mary's in the summer of my sophomore year.
One of the elderly patients had locked themselves in the bathroom with his IVs ready to ensnare the throat of anyone ballsy enough to try and take him from his room. Without ever touching the first lot of them, the red-eyed bastard ordered each of the nurses to stand in a line and shoot a syringe full of air into their veins, killing themselves instantly.
The moment the Red Death caught wind of the incident, they made their thoughts on the matter immediately clear. A RD squad burst into the same wing as the old man and assembled each of the hospice patients, decrepit and dying, along the wall and sprayed them with automated rifle fire until nothing remained but red splotches against the paint.
It was the second time I had witnessed their atrocities, and this time I didn't have to be told twice to hide. I knew better.
The moment I heard the swing of the revolving door accompanied by the slow collective march of patent leather boots fall single-file into the hallway behind me, I ducked beneath the patient records' desk, praying they couldn't see me.
I counted the seconds on my fingertips as I waited beneath the desk, my breath frantic in my chest like a bird trying to escape.
And so it happened everywhere.
And soon I, too, became a target.
About The Author
M. Dylan Blair currently resides in Charleston, South Carolina with her family. When she's not writing, her other interests include horticulture, renewable energy, natural medicine, and theology. Fall From Paradise is her first published novel.
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http://www.mdylanblair.com/
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FALL FROM PARADISE Page 28