Contents
Title Page
Copyright
MORE
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
The Guardians
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
Twelve
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
MORE Trilogy
By
T.M. Franklin
“MORE Trilogy” first published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2015
Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2015
“MORE” Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2011
“The Guardians” Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2012
“TWELVE” Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2013
The right of T.M. Franklin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters and events in this Book – even those sharing the same name as (or based on) real people – are entirely fictional. No person, brand, or corporation mentioned in this Book should be taken to have endorsed this Book nor should the events surrounding them be considered in any way factual.
This Book is a work of fiction and should be read as such.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia) PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126
(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-380-5
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-381-2
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
MORE Cover Art:
Cover image - © Depositphotos.com / Francesco Cura
Cover design - T.M. Franklin
The Guardians Cover Art:
Cover image - © Depositphotos.com / Francesco Cura
Cover design - T.M. Franklin
TWELVE Cover Art:
Cover image - © Depositphotos.com / yblaz
Cover design - T.M. Franklin
MORE Trilogy Cover Art:
Cover image - © Depositphotos.com / Francesco Cura
Cover design - T.M. Franklin
Interior design - JEM Book Designs
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/TFranklin
Chapter 1
He was close.
Ava pressed back against the tree trunk, trying to hold her breath but only able to manage it for a moment or two before her lungs gave out, air sawing out and in again desperately against her will. Rough bark rubbed the skin of her palms where she gripped the tree, scraped her cheek as she turned her head to try and catch a glimpse of him.
Darkness mocked her.
Nothing to see. No one to help.
She eyed the entrance to her dorm frantically, the lit doorway calling out like a beacon on the other side of the concrete bridge.
If she could only get there . . .
If she could only get behind that door—lock it fast—she would be safe.
Safe.
The word echoed through her panicked brain, foreign and twisted.
Could she ever really be safe while he was out there?
“Do it,” she muttered, inhaling sharply as tension rippled through her. “Just go.”
With a shove at the tree, she ran for the bridge, heels clacking loudly on the path as her muscles screamed. She glanced over her shoulder, catching a flicker of movement through the trees.
No!
Ava willed her legs to move faster, arms pumping in desperation—reaching out and pulling at the air, as if she could yank herself forward.
Her breath caught. She could hear him. Footsteps chasing after her.
No—footsteps beside her—now ahead of her.
Where was he?
The better question seemed to be, where wasn’t he?
He surrounded her—harsh breaths and pounding feet—a low, mocking laugh as she leapt from the bridge back onto the path.
Only a few more feet to the door.
Almost there.
She reached out, aching to wrap her fingers around the gleaming brass doorknob.
Then with a blur of movement and a gust of a swirling air, he stood in front of her, blocking the way. Huge, hulking, and shadowed by the darkness, he laughed as she recoiled in fear, falling backward in her haste.
“Did you really think you could escape?” he hissed, reaching toward her.
Fingers ripped the icy ground as she rolled over, trying to crawl away, rocks digging into her knees and her palms, a bit of glass slicing neatly into the meat of her thumb. She winced, lifting it to her mouth to suck the blood, feet kicking back as he grabbed her ankle.
He laughed again, jerking her back with one strong pull and dragging her effortlessly across the ground. He bent down, wrapping a meaty fist around her neck, and she clawed it desperately, unable to breathe.
Lifting Ava off her feet, he glared at her, a flash of light catching his angry, mismatched eyes—one blue, one green.
For a moment, she was almost mesmerized.
Then his lips curled in derision and he squeezed, cutting off the scream curdling in her throat.
Ava awoke with a start, fingers still scraping desperately at her neck, her skin clammy with sweat and fear.
“Ava?” Her roommate, Lucy, sat up in her bed across the room, flipping on the dim light by her pillow. “Are you okay?”
Ava inhaled deeply to get her racing heart under control. “Yeah . . . sorry.”
“Another bad dream?” Lucy sat up, shoving her pale blonde hair back off her forehead. Ava took a moment to resent the fact that even when woken from a sound sleep, her roommate looked impeccable—long, shiny hair which managed to stay untangled even in bed, cornflower-blue eyes, and flawless skin with a touch of pink on her cheeks and lips, even without makeup. It was only the slight crick in her nose that kept her from being too beautiful, too perfect.
And the only thing that kept Ava from automatically hating her on sight when she first met her. Well, that and the fact that Lucy Matthews was arguably the nicest person on the planet. Ava had taken one look at that perfect face, the tall, lithe frame, and automatically felt short and squat. Insecurity set in, even though she’d never been fat, and at five foot four was considered about average height. Ava often saw herself as Lucy’s non-m
irror image—Rose Red to Lucy’s Snow White. Not ugly or even unattractive, just shadowed by the near perfection of Lucy’s glowing beauty. But underneath Lucy’s ethereal appearance beat an unselfish heart, and a rather dark and twisted sense of humor. It was only about five minutes after she walked into the dorm room on the first day of freshmen orientation two months earlier that Ava knew she’d met her best friend. Before the heat of summer melted into the cool of fall, she’d been proven right. Everyone loved Lucy. It was impossible not to.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ava said finally, yawning as the dream finally faded. “Sorry to wake you.”
Lucy shrugged, glancing at her clock. “It’s okay. The alarm was about to go off anyway.” She stretched, slipping out of bed and into her pink fuzzy slippers. “You want to talk about it?”
Ava shrugged. “The usual. Creepy man chasing me in the dark and choking me to death.”
Lucy grimaced. “Why can’t you dream about Duncan Johan like a normal person?”
Ava smiled. Lucy had discovered the BBC series Robin Hood over the summer and was obsessed about the actor who played the title role.
“He’s too skinny,” Ava said, purposely taunting her.
Lucy gaped in shock and threw a pillow at her. “How dare you! You know he’s perfection personified and will one day be the father to my rather gorgeous children.”
Ava giggled, getting out of bed and gathering her things for a shower. “Skinny children,” she said, earning another pillow. “At least that’s one thing about my dream attacker,” she said wryly. “The guy is seriously built.”
“Well, that’s something you look for in a crazed killer, I suppose,” Lucy deadpanned.
“At least he’s nice to look at.”
“While he’s strangling the life out of you.”
“Well, yes. There’s that.” Ava smirked, throwing a towel over her shoulder.
Lucy’s laughter followed her down the hall to the bathroom.
It was almost enough to chase the chill from her skin.
After a long, hot shower, Ava’s nightmare began to fade, and she started to feel a little ridiculous for overreacting to a simple dream, as frightening as it might have been. She dried her hair, applying a little makeup and popping her contacts in with a practiced hand.
Ava swept aside her dishwater bangs and frowned at her reflection, tired eyes staring back at her—brown, boring . . . normal.
She shrugged. Normal was good. Tired, not so much. She really needed to get more sleep.
Dreamless, preferably.
With a defeated sigh and one last brush of lip gloss, she gathered her things and left to start her day.
Ava stopped by the campus coffee shop on her way to physics class and once again wished she could wave a hand to cut a path through the line. She smirked at the thought, one she hadn’t had since she was a child, at least not that often.
There was a time, long ago, when Ava thought she was special. No, not in the of course you’re special, you’re my child way that every parent wished their child would believe, but in a unique, different way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
It started when she was five, and she’d seen a Disney movie about a little girl who could talk to animals with her mind and move things with just a thought. She’d watched in awe as the girl’s dolls danced around her bedroom, turning cartwheels and spinning in circles.
Ava was convinced she could do it, too.
For hours, she’d sit staring at her Baby Cries-a-Lot (which she’d inexplicably named Eleanor), willing her to get up and crawl or dance or say “I love you” in a singsong voice like her little friend Samantha’s baby doll. She never got discouraged, convinced that with the right amount of concentration she could make it happen.
Eleanor never danced. The dog next door never stopped barking. The little boy who used to throw rocks at her on the way to school never got the chicken pox.
But she kept trying.
Then, when she was eight years old, something happened.
Ava had been tasked with the job of caring for the classroom hamster, Herman, over the Thanksgiving weekend. Swollen with pride at the honor, she’d carefully carried him home on the school bus, balancing his cage on her lap, his food and toys tucked away in her lunch box. She begged her mother to allow her to keep Herman in her room instead of on the washing machine and gleefully placed him on her little desk after her mom succumbed to her pleading.
She sat for hours watching him run on his little wheel, making sure his water bottle was always full, and cleaning up the wood shavings religiously.
After wolfing down her Thanksgiving dinner, she’d raced up to her room to feed Herman his ration of kibble and nuts.
And it was gone.
Frantic, she’d searched high and low for the little bag of food, digging through drawers, crawling under the bed, even removing every book from her bookshelf and shaking it out in desperation. She’d thrown herself on her bed, sobbing, sure that Herman was going to starve and it would be all her fault.
Looking back, Ava often wondered why she didn’t go to her mother with the problem. Her mom had always come through before—baking last-minute cupcakes for the bake sale, running around town to find all the parts for a science project, even getting her contact lenses so she didn’t feel so self-conscious around the other kids. It was obvious, through the eyes of an adult, that it wasn’t a dire emergency. All it would take was a trip to the corner store for some sunflower seeds, or she could probably find something sufficient among the Thanksgiving leftovers.
But to eight-year-old Ava, it was a catastrophe of monstrous proportions. So, as she huddled on top of her pink and purple comforter, she’d watched Herman run on his little wheel, murmuring over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The hamster had hopped off the wheel, scurrying over to the side of the cage to sit up on his hind legs, beady eyes blinking. Ava had sniffed, staring at the little animal, and felt a strange warmth creeping over her body. After watching him for a long moment, she’d closed her eyes, unsure of what she was doing, but under an odd compulsion to do it.
In her mind, she’d seen the little bag of seeds, floating in a field of blackness. She watched it for a moment, almost smelling the salty tang through the plastic. Without thinking, she’d reached out for it, wrapping her fingers around the bag. Her eyes had flown open, and suddenly, she knew. She’d gotten up from the bed, hurried to the window over her desk, and drawn back the curtain with trembling fingers.
The bag of food sat on the windowsill, as if it had been there the whole time. Even though Ava knew she had checked that very same spot not a half an hour before.
When Ava had breathlessly told her mother about it, when she’d insisted she could make things happen, her mom had just smiled indulgently, patted her head and sent her out to play.
Ava hadn’t lost faith, though.
At least, not for a long, long time.
For years, she’d continued to try to replicate what had happened with the hamster, staring at a fork or a spoon or a book to try and make it slide across the table, picturing an A on her latest book report, or willing John McCaffrey to ask her to the sophomore dance.
It had never happened again, though. And eventually, her memory of the Herman the Hamster miracle started to fade, growing fuzzy around the edges until she began to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing, after all.
“Miss?” The barista interrupted Ava’s thoughts, an expectant look on her face. “What can I get for you?”
Ava smiled and ordered.
There was nothing wrong with being normal, she decided, even if it wasn’t nearly as much fun.
She sipped her coffee as she wandered through the bustling campus of Allenmore College. Mid-October in northern Missouri was cooler than she was used to, having grown up in the rather temperate climate of the Pacific Northwest, and she reveled in the stray beams of sunlight peeking through the trees and warming her skin as she passed under them.
Ava loved college, for the most part. She had found a place there that had eluded her back home.
She’d always felt a bit awkward—which probably contributed to her desire to be some kind of wizardly telekinetic—left out of the popular group, too smart to hang out with the outcasts, too shy to fit in with the brains. As a result, Ava spent the bulk of her teenage years alone, with the exception of her best friend, Arthur, who lived across the street and was as much of a loner as she was. They bonded over a combined love of the classics—both in literature and on television. (Although they differed a bit on what constituted a classic, at least where TV was concerned—Arthur insisting Star Trek in all it incarnations fit that role, Ava leaning more toward sitcoms of the 1960s.) Ava knew they’d made an odd-looking pair—tall, thin Arthur with his dyed-black hair and multiple piercings, and Ava with her sweet, innocent, girl-next-door looks—but somehow, they seemed to fit.
Arthur was the only one who, thanks to a late night confession fueled by cheap wine when her parents were out of town, knew of Ava’s experience with the hamster. To her surprise, Arthur didn’t mock her. Instead, he quoted some statistics about the percentage of the brain human beings used as well as numerous theories regarding what we would be capable of if we could only access the unused portions.
Of course, Arthur was also convinced he saw a UFO while camping with his parents at Yosemite, so Ava took it all with a grain of salt.
Ava smiled at the thought, missing Arthur desperately. He was a genius and, as geniuses often were, was accepted to MIT, leaving Ava to fend for herself at her little liberal arts college in the sleepy town of Witteville. They spoke regularly, exchanged texts and e-mails, but she felt a little sad when she thought about him. The distance between them wasn’t only physical. Ava knew that sometimes absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes absence was just absence, a hole eventually filled by something, or someone, else. She knew in her heart that they were growing up, growing apart. It was a bittersweet realization, and she found all she could do was hope that Arthur had found his place, as well.
Ava gulped down the last of her latte, chucking the cup in the trash as she entered the science building and dodged between bodies on her way upstairs. Whipping off her hat, she swept her static-crackly hair up into a ponytail, securing it with the elastic she always kept around her wrist.
The MORE Trilogy Page 1