The Traitor's Crux (The Dark Powers Book 1)

by Jessica Prather

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Copyright © JESSICA PRATHER 2017

  This edition published in 2017 by

  O F T O M E S P U B L I S H I N G

  U N I T E D K I N G D O M

  The right of JESSICA PRATHER to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Tara Spruit

  Cover & Interior design by Eight Little Pages

  FOR MY FAMILY- FOR EVERYTHING

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  WHEN THEY CAME, IT WAS in the black of the night as the world around us slept.

  I was about to scream when I heard the shouts, but my father thought differently. He clasped his large, calloused hands across my mouth as he swept me into his arms, a shelter in the raging storm about to set.

  There was always a spot I hid when Eli and I played hide and seek. Our father built a food storage into our tiny home, preparing us for long winter months without food. It was deep and dark, nestled behind a picture on the wall.

  That’s where he hid me that night. I remember crying for him, clutching his flannel shirt firmly with my knobby child fingers as he frantically set me on my feet.

  “Be back soon, Mija,” he whispered in his sweet, Spanish cadence. His eyes said differently. They were wild with fear, and that’s what frightened me the most. The pitch-black room swallowed me as he shut me in; the painting of two children, hand in hand in a meadow, was the only thing hiding my presence in our home.

  The sounds were the worst of it. I identified the soldiers by their angry tones, vicious, like a dog with rabies, mad, ready to kill. Then my father’s voice, usually so calm, so confident, now pleading.

  The thunder of bullets echoing through our home.

  My mother’s scream.

  I couldn’t help it. I was curious, afraid. I burst from my hiding spot, shoving the back of the frame until it fell, shattering to the ground.

  My world became a funnel; everything blurred around the edges. Hazy, like I was in a dream.

  My father was face down in a pool of blood, riddled with bullets. I didn’t hear the scream that came from me, only felt the crippling weight of grief.

  Snickers from the soldiers, arrogant, cruel. Vile men, vile acts.

  My mother’s cries. She was still pleading.

  I was so lost in the moment that I hadn’t noticed the real reason for their raid. Handcuffed, limp in their hands, was Eli.

  My only brother, his head bashed, dripping with blood. His long arms cuffed behind him as he slumped over, his head drooping as they dragged him.

  I tried to fight for them. I tried to kick and scream, throw the biggest fit I could muster. They couldn’t take him from me. They would have to take me too.

  I leapt forward like a venomous snake, striking, trying to find weakness. I wasn’t going to let them take him. I couldn’t. Immediately, my forehead was met with the butt of a gun smacking down on me with brutal force. My world crumbled around me. The last thing I saw was my father’s lifeless body and a pool of blood.

  I think they left right after that. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  1 I REMEMBER A TIME WHEN life was actually worth something. Or at least I thought so. Now, as I stand with Joshua Rivers’ corpse at my feet, I realize just how naïve I really was.

  I’ve known the Rivers family ever since I was a little girl. Eli and I would play for hours with Joshua, weaving in and out of the trees, lost in the throes of some whimsical game. After Eli was taken, I sought refuge with Joshua, one of my only friends when the world turned its back on me.

  The sting of tears burns at the corners of my eyes, trailing my cheeks and landing on my lips with a salty kiss. The Witch’s War hasn’t just taken lives, it’s seized our humanity, and we haven’t done a thing about it.

  It all began because of President Malen. He wasn’t just magic. He was a monster. He wanted one thing, and one thing only: power.

  The nation watched him, holding a collective breath. I don’t know if they were too terrified, or simply too callous to do anything. All I know is they let him do it.

  He evolved from President to something else as he disbanded congress, robbed the U.S. of the constitution, the Bill of Rights. We’d heard of people like this before. Rulers, killers. Still, when history resurfaced… we let it happen.

  War occurred. Our country was ravaged. People lost their homes, their loved ones, their lives. We were swept into medieval conditions and a lack of proper medical care. This led to a plague.

  By the time Malen was assassinated, most of the country had been wiped out.

  Then Vice President Thomas Reed stepped in.

  If Malen was the fire, then Reed was the arsonist. Malen was explosive, sloppy, and that was his downfall. But Reed, Reed was smart. He rekindled the flames, controlled the burn. He knew the nation was angry and tired of war. It took a few sparks from the arsonist’s match to gain their loyalty.

  For years, they’ve targeted the magic population of the United States.

  The lucky ones, such as the Rivers family, end up slaughtered. Others, like my brother, are taken to prisons and internment camps, never to be spoken of again.

  I’ve thought endlessly about where Eli could be—if he’s still alive. Eli was everything I could never be. He had my father’s charisma and his easy smile
. He’d flash that dimpled grin and wrinkle his freckled nose and all his mischief would be forgiven. I’ve always been the complete opposite: shy and serious, always fretting. While Eli took center-stage, I hid in the background.

  When the arrest happened, our community was shocked. Friends and neighbors called it a tragedy, a curse. Suddenly, conversations changed and Eli became that diseased boy. In their eyes, he became a criminal. People empathized with my mother. They murmured about how difficult it must be for her. Eventually, they stopped talking to us altogether. Prying eyes still watch every time we go to town. They gossip and snicker, watching us as if we’re a different species. We’re the Coria family, disgraced because of that boy and the father that died defending him. Soldiers now visit us monthly. They check us for “the disease”, as if magic is bacteria that can easily spread through a cough or an uncovered sneeze. It’s been nine years since that day. Nine years of narrowed eyes and cruel words, nightmares and one broken family.

  There was only one family in the entire city of Denver that seemed to care. The Rivers stuck with us, even after my family’s demise. They helped us when things got tough. Life moved on slowly and painfully, but their friendship always stayed true.

  Joshua became my closest friend, so close, in fact, that the adults always teased about our future marriage. We secretly wanted it too. I remember one night where we climbed a tree together and just sat there in silence, fingers intertwined as we stared at the twinkling city lights. It took only a second for the government’s planes to arrive, swooping in and dropping their bombs with a deafening scream. We watched for hours as the glimmering city burned and flickered. The smoke and ash drifted to the sky and kissed the constellations as my tears blurred together the colors of a collapsing world.

  I kneel beside Joshua’s body, which is broken and limp like a rag-doll. He looks so peaceful, tawny eyes winged by long black lashes, staring up at the painted sky above. A shuddering sob escapes me as my fingers trace the copper skin of his cheek, rising to those eyelids and easing them shut. I lean in just slightly, planting a soft kiss to his forehead.

  “Kenadee?” My mother’s footsteps are light, crunching on the fallen autumn debris.

  I don’t turn to face her. I don’t want her to see my grief. “I’m coming.”

  She pauses a moment, then replies, her voice its usual matter-of-fact tone, “You can’t stay—the soldiers will be coming soon to collect the bodies.”

  When I say nothing, her feet crunch beside me as she kneels, hazel eyes—Eli’s eye—calm as they assess the broken remains of a family we loved. “They’re gone, Kennie. There’s nothing we can do. You know the dangers of loving them—you’ll only end up dead.”

  “I-I never knew.” I swallow, my words betraying me.

  “Me either, but you know that it’s in both of our best interests if we stay away. Like it or not, Joshua lied to you. He’s magic…. a criminal, Kennie, and that’s why he’s dead.”

  I bite my lip, a sudden anger welling inside me. I want to scream, to throw things, to cry like a child, but I know there’s no use. The Rivers are all gone. Just like Eli, just like my father, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I nod, wordless, as my mother pats my back and heads down the street. I push myself up to my feet as the wind rises up, toying with my hair. There’s a fluttering sound, the tapping of paper, faint among the whispering trees. I turn towards the Rivers’ home, Heather Rivers’ body strewn across the blood-stained steps, a paper clutched in her fist.

  I find myself inching closer, dropping to a crouch beside her lifeless body. My fingers ease the paper from her hands as I let loose a trembling breath. I uncurl the blood-speckled page and let my eyes dart over the messy scrawl of a writer in a hurry.

  To hunt or to be hunted, Miss Coria. Survival of the fittest.

  2 I CAN’T HELP IT. THE bile rises in my throat and I vomit on the Rivers’ front lawn. I have to get away from here. Goosebumps riddle my arms as I clamor to my feet and race down the sidewalk, gasping desperately for air.

  My mind races. Who would have done this? Why would they leave a note like that? Someone had known that I would be there. This wasn’t just a raid—this was a message for me.

  “What’s wrong?” My mother frowns as I come bursting into the house, tears on my face and no air in my lungs.

  “I-I-the Rivers…” I gape, bending over my knees as I try to get air to my screaming lungs. In all my haste, I’d left the note back on the scene.

  “What are you talking about? What is going on with you? Kenadee?” She follows me through our cramped home as I walk off, making my way to my tiny room and pulling my blinds shut.

  “Someone left a message for me,” I whisper, trying to control my shaking hands.

  “What?” she exclaims, alarm taking over her features. Her eyes search my face frantically and for a moment, she doesn’t seem to know what to say. She turns towards the window, assessing the situation as the story flies from my lips.

  When she doesn’t reply, I step towards her, a small child in need of her mother’s guidance. “Mom! Please! We have to do something.”

  She doesn’t turn from the window. Her knobby, arthritic fingers grab at her cardigan, pulling it tighter around herself. Her voice is cold and quiet, void of the emotion that filled her moments ago, “It was surely just a prank, Kenadee. If you would’ve left when I asked you to… No good comes from sneaking around like that. You’re lucky no soldiers were nearby! Do you know what would’ve happened?”

  I nod, trying to hide the fact that my stomach is twisting itself into knots. My mother stares at me for one long moment, then sticks a hand underneath my chin, tilting it upward so that I meet her gaze. “Your brother and father are dead. You of all people should know the dangers that come with associating with those magic people. Only bad things occur, Kenadee. Keep it up and you’ll end up just like them.” I sniffle as she strokes the hair from my face. “Now, go wash up for dinner. I don’t want to hear about this again.”

  Knowing better than to argue with her, I make my way to the bathroom, unable to shed the feeling that something wicked lurks ahead.

  ***

  I DREAM OF MY BROTHER again tonight. It’s so real, that I wake up to the taste of salty tears running across my cracked lips.

  We were kids, playing in the woods like we always used to, when all of a sudden, a trap burst from the ground, clamping down on his leg. He couldn’t get away. I kept on running, giggling, thinking that it was a prank he was playing on me. He always used to play jokes. What was so different this time? Eli’s mischief wouldn’t fool me.

  Not this time.

  Only when he started screaming did I realize it wasn’t some joke and that he really did need my help. I turned to run, but my feet were heavy as stones. It was like my body was a statue, suddenly unable to do anything but stand completely still.

  I could only watch, frozen by whatever cruel twist of fate held me at bay, as he faded, arms outstretched, reaching for me as the shadows swallowed him whole. I couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. Once again, he was being taken from me, and then, in a flash, he was gone. I never could rescue him.

  To hunt, or to be hunted. Survival of the fittest.

  Somewhere nearby, a coyote cries its mournful tune. The others in the pack follow suit, a high-pitched chorus to the midnight skies. I stare at the window, hugging my knees to my chest as the tears fall freely.

  The day we discovered Eli had powers, we were playing in the woods that surround our house. It was by pure accident as I swung on the old rope hanging from the tree. We were too young, too reckless to care that the rope was fraying. The next thing I knew, I was falling through the air, a piece of broken rope clutched in each tiny fist. He was too far away to do anything but watch in horror. His hands shot out and I was caught by some unexplainable force in the middle of the air. Floating.

  He’d caught me.

  When I went bragging to my parents, my mother instantly knew wha
t we had to do. She thought it’d be best to turn him in, to save the family the trouble. If he were caught otherwise, we’d be arrested alongside him. She was looking to spare us. That was the angriest I’d ever seen my father. They screamed at each other all night long, keeping us both awake. We hid in the shadows, fingers plugging our ears. I still could make out fragments, slices of words like disease and monster. I cried at my father’s plea, that deep cry for justice, “Emily, he’s our son!”

  In the end, their fight didn’t even matter.

  I don’t go back to sleep after the nightmare. I stay in that spot, huddled by the window until the dawn paints the sky anew. I like to be awake for the sunrise. It’s the melancholy time of the day before the rest of the world wakes and reality hits hardest. I always feel that nothing can really hurt you in the mornings.

  Slowly, everything is washed in faded orange light. It’s Monday morning, time to prepare for school. I shiver as I throw the covers off and my skin is greeted by the crisp autumn air. I hurry to grab my clothes, putting them on quickly, eager to get warmed up. I tuck my freezing toes into the slippers by my bed and head to the sink, splashing my swollen eyes with water.

  “Focus, Kenadee,” I whisper, staring at my red-eyed reflection in the mirror. I’d cried all night in silent grief, mourning the boy I once loved, left to the same fate as the family I’d lost.

  I can’t do this. I can’t be afraid. I navigate the best I can through the dark, brushing my teeth and twisting my dark hair back into a tiny ponytail at the nape of my neck. It sticks out in a million different directions, too short to cooperate any way I like. Carefully, I pin back the baby hairs framing my face, which always make me look a bit feral. I definitely don’t need that now. My face is still flushed from the tears, my eyes swollen and my head pounding. I look wild enough.

  I head to the kitchen, trying to avoid slamming the cabinets as I produce a spoon, the pitcher of milk, and some oats. My mom has already gone to work, and the house sits quiet. It feels forced and unnatural to make any noise at all. Besides, I like the quiet. It helps me think.