Autumn Rose: A Dark Heroine Novel

by Abigail Gibbs

  Epigraph

  O Angel, ravish me in my youth!

  Render me incapable of thought

  And reduce me to the primal eldest joy,

  For I am yours,

  Until the day Christ calls.

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Autumn

  Chapter Two: Autumn

  Chapter Three: Autumn

  Chapter Four: Autumn

  Chapter Five: Autumn

  Chapter Six: Autumn

  Chapter Seven: Fallon

  Chapter Eight: Autumn

  Chapter Nine: Autumn

  Chapter Ten: Autumn

  Chapter Eleven: Autumn

  Chapter Twelve: Fallon

  Chapter Thirteen: Autumn

  Chapter Fourteen: Autumn

  Chapter Fifteen: Autumn

  Chapter Sixteen: Fallon

  Chapter Seventeen: Autumn

  Chapter Eighteen: Autumn

  Chapter Nineteen: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-one: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-two: Fallon

  Chapter Twenty-three: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-four: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-five: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-six: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-nine: Fallon

  Chapter Thirty: Autumn

  Chapter Thirty-one: Autumn

  Chapter Thirty-two: Autumn

  Chapter Thirty-three: Autumn

  Chapter Thirty-four: Autumn

  Chapter Thirty-five: Fallon

  Chapter Thirty-six: Autumn

  Chapter Thirty-seven: Autumn

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Abigail Gibbs

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  I suppose I always knew I was different;

  that my fate was set in stone, and that one day,

  I would sit on a cold, hard throne.

  A symbol of what I am. A deity of my kind.

  A deity among many.

  I was not conscious. I was running through the green grass, screaming her name in a tongue as familiar to me as the shadow that the tall gray-stone building cast in my path. Tears streaked my face and I struggled to climb the steps, hearing the babble behind the closed entrance doors, like the stream beside the lodge that would swell after the winter rains. My polished, square, school-approved heels squealed in protest as I burst through the double doors, coming across the same sight I had seen a thousand times: hundreds of faces turning to me, and then blackness. I waited, breathless though asleep, for the scene to replay itself as it always had in the past.

  But this time was different. Instead of waking up in a cold sweat, cheeks wet, bed soaked, I drifted into another scene. Now, a tall statue loomed in front of me and sunlight glinted off pale paving and the tumbling water in two identical fountains. Almost as though somebody had hit fast-forward, the scene sped up and I watched, captivated, as thousands of suit-clad humans and camera-carrying tourists rushed from one side of a square to the other. The clouds sailed across the simmering gray ocean of a sky, the square darkening as day turned to night, Nelson lighting up on his column as fewer and fewer people passed by. Eventually, Trafalgar Square emptied of all life except for a few pigeons and a lone girl.

  The scene slowed and focused on the girl. Dark hair framed her face and she wore a long black coat, half-unbuttoned to reveal the darkened outline of cleavage and hoisted high enough to show the hem of her black dress, which she tugged down every few minutes. She wasn’t pale, but neither was she blessed with a tan; most striking of all were her eyes, purple, which glowed above the light of her mobile.

  Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she moved to sit on one of the long stone benches beneath the trees that lined the square. After a single minute, she perked up again, alert and tense.

  Abruptly, the scene cut and was replaced by another. Darkening, congealing red liquid coated the ground and stained the water of the fountains like wine. Bodies littered the ground and I looked on, sickened as their life and energy drained from their necks and seeped across the city I knew and loved; the city I was torn from . . .

  I was wrenched back to consciousness. Bolting upright in bed, I reached for the light on my alarm clock, surprised. It had only just turned one o’clock in the morning.

  I was sweating now and heaving in air, hugging the clock to my chest so its light illuminated the room. It was empty, but every time I blinked I could see blood, and bodies, and purple eyes . . .

  Groaning at the vivid images still implanted in my mind, I grabbed a pen and reached up to the calendar above my bed, crossing out and therefore marking the start of another day of the fast-evaporating summer holidays: July 31.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Autumn

  Well, look here, it’s everyone’s favorite recluse.” An apron came flying my way and I caught it, unfolded it, and tied the strings behind my back.

  “Good morning, Nathan.”

  “Did you hear that, Sophie?” he asked, turning to one of the new, young waitresses, whose arms were stacked up with crisp white plates as the much older Nathan emptied the dishwasher. “It’s a good morning. How unusual.”

  I stared at the girl and tried to decide if I’d met her before, or if she was just totally indistinguishable from the other skinny jeans–clad and powdered-orange Saturday staff.

  “And how am I a recluse?” I asked without tearing my eyes off her.

  She returned the gaze with wide eyes as sweat began to trickle down her temples. Her fingers nervously tapped against the rim of the lowest plate, and as I sidestepped her to grab a pile of menus, she scrambled back and squeaked. The plates in her hands dropped toward the tiled floor.

  Haven’t met her before, then.

  With a flick of my finger, the plates froze in midair and floated onto the worktop. Before she could react again, I left the cramped kitchen and made my way toward the front of the Harbour Café, flipping the Closed sign on the door so it read Open. It was the end of August, and though it was still early, I could see through the window that tourists were already beginning to crowd the busy walkway from the working harbor to the more upmarket marina; in the distance, trawler fishing boats squeezed between jetties, bringing with them the smell of fish. Neither was the glass a barrier against the sound of chinking masts and the cries of the gulls as they swarmed for their chance to snatch a portion of the day’s catch—the score that accompanied every morning in the bustling fishing town of Brixham.

  Nathan rounded the counter and crossed the café in a couple of bounding strides—not hard, because of his tall and lanky build. He cocked his head apologetically.

  “Before you arrived, she was telling me she’s never seen a Sage,” he explained in an undertone.

  I shrugged. Her reaction came as no surprise. In the year I had worked at the café, only Nathan—the chef—and I had been permanent, and every new member of staff had given me a wide berth and left shortly after. The only reason I hadn’t lost my job over it was because my boss knew she could get away with paying me less. I wasn’t about to put up a fuss. She had been the only person in town willing to offer me any work at all.

  Nathan placed a tattooed left hand on my arm as I went to pass. “And recluse because you haven’t answered my texts for a month.”

  “You were in Iceland, and I was in London.”

  “You still could have replied.”

  I grabbed the sleeve of his chef’s whites�
�which were, in fact, black—and removed his arm. Released, I laid the menus containing the day’s specials on the tables, working my way across the café with Nathan following.

  “How was Iceland?” I eventually asked to fill the silence.

  “Beautiful. Democratic.”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes as my back was turned.

  “The humans and Sage there live together as one community, not divided like here.” I straightened up to see him jerking his thumb back toward the kitchen, where Sophie was. “Or anywhere,” he added as an afterthought.

  I’d heard his rhetoric on Sagean-human relations before, but he had saved up for so long to afford his holiday that I didn’t want to burst his bubble. And yet . . .

  “Sage? Only Extermino live there.”

  I couldn’t see his eyes, because his hair—curly, brown, and almost down to his shoulders—was covering them, but I thought I saw him avert them.

  “Extermino are Sage, too, they just believe different things.”

  “And yes, their scars turn gray just because they play happy families with humans,” I mocked, but I didn’t find the matter funny at all. “They’re violent extremist rebels, Nathan. They are enemies of the Athenean monarchy, and of all other dark beings too. Don’t forget that.”

  He looked toward the ground and adjusted his rolled-up cuffs. “I just think things aren’t great as they are, while people like you get marginalized—”

  The tinkle of a bell interrupted him and we both startled and turned toward the door, as if surprised that customers actually might be coming in. The three girls in the doorframe paused, as startled as we were, and then proceeded to the table beside the window.

  “Good luck,” Nathan muttered, and retreated back to the kitchen.

  I took a deep breath, pulled out my notepad, and approached the group.

  “Good morning, what can I get you?” I chirped, pretending they were total strangers.

  The nearest girl flicked her long black hair over her shoulders and leered at me from behind her heavy bangs. She was tall, and her shoulders very wide; she didn’t have to tilt her head far to meet my gaze.

  “The usual, witch.”

  I gripped the pen tightly, trying to focus through the window on the steady lap of the sea against the harbor walls.

  “I’ve been away for a month, I’m afraid I can’t remember what you and your friends have, Valerie,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Valerie Danvers was what could only be described as a bully. My school’s bully.

  Her sustenance was my misery, not a damned coffee.

  She muttered something to her friends about Sage, and then begrudgingly gave me her order, demanding that half the dish be omitted. Her friends were only slightly less unpleasant.

  I went and got their drinks and was thanked with the usual grunt. A minute later I was in the bathroom, back to the door, forcing myself to take deep breaths. It was a Saturday-morning ritual, and had been ever since Valerie Danvers had discovered the café was the perfect place to torment me.

  With my eyes closed, I could almost see the short outline of a woman—my grandmother, growing older but still in her prime— with her head bowed toward a small child, half her height, and talking. Always talking.

  Sagean children are like ivy; you grow fast and live very long. Human children are like butterflies. They are ugly in their chrysalis, until the day they finally emerge and become adults. The ugly chrysalis is jealous of the ivy, you see?

  I squeezed my eyelids tighter together. Breathe . . .

  Hammering on the other side of the door wrenched me back. The small room was still dark, and I grabbed a cord, flooding the room with sterile white light.

  “Autumn, I know it’s you, get out of there now!”

  “Nathan,” I groaned. He knew Valerie was a pain, why was he bothering me?

  “Something’s happening outside!”

  My skin began to heat and tingle as blood and magic raced to my hands. Walls ceased to be barriers . . . because from far away, I could hear a heartbeat, fast approaching and speeding up . . . and it wasn’t human.

  I unlocked the door and peeked out. A pale Nathan stood on the other side while the rest of the café was empty; stepping out, I could see Valerie and her friends straining over the railings surrounding the harbor, watching a commotion across the water.

  I ran outside and the warmth on my skin was whipped away with the cold sea breeze; but my heart went cold, too. A jetty opposite us was blanketed in a miniature patch of fog, like a fire had been lit and the smoke had engulfed the wall. Yet it lit up with flashes of light, and it screamed; it screamed for mercy . . . or the people trapped inside did.

  My body froze. The rational part of my brain knew I should help, but my feet wouldn’t move.

  Suddenly, Nathan bolted away from my side and sprinted along the wall toward the screams. His action shut the fear off and I flung myself into the air and flew across the harbor, crumpling to the ground near the fog.

  I had no idea what the fog was—I was too afraid to send any magic toward it in case it hit anybody trapped inside . . . so instead I tentatively reached out with a finger, ball of fire ready just behind in the other hand.

  It seemed like fine drizzle from a couple of inches away, yet as the tip of my finger touched it, no moisture collected . . .

  I felt the borders between dimensions rip open like a sheet being torn apart. You had to have magic to cross them—strong magic—and weak dark beings and humans couldn’t open them.

  The dread in my heart only increased as I realized what kind of enemy I was facing: not one I could fight.

  The pull of the borders tried to yank me forward and I stumbled, trying to hold myself back until the white cloud abruptly disappeared into a closing black hole; it sealed before I could possibly see who had created it.

  The scene that was revealed was horrifying. There were maybe ten humans, most crouched or lying on the ground, some bleeding, all blinking and looking around bewildered at the sunlight. In the middle there was a man lying flat on his back, a pool of blood gathering around his head but not a scratch anywhere else on him.

  A woman was leaning over him and shaking his shoulders. Another had her fingers pressed to his wrists. She reached out and placed a hand on the arm of the other woman, shaking her head.

  “Autumn, do something!” Nathan demanded, having caught up with me.

  The humans looked up for the first time and noticed me.

  “No, Nathan, he’s gone, I can’t—”

  Nathan shoved me forward, glaring. “You’re a Sage, of course you can. Sage can do anything.”

  I looked down at the man on the ground, shaking my head as tears brimmed. Why is he doing this? Nathan knows I can’t bring back the dead!

  “It’s your duty,” Nathan continued.

  The woman managed to stop sobbing long enough to speak. “They had gray scars . . . two of them. Hit him with black light.”

  Gray scars—Extermino! And black light . . . That was a death curse!

  “I’m sorry, I really can’t—”

  I backed away. There was nothing I could do even if I hadn’t been paralyzed by fear of the Extermino . . . in Brixham. Attacking humans. It didn’t make sense, and something told me that their target had been a Sage . . . and I was the only Sage for miles.

  The woman screamed and kept shaking the man. I couldn’t watch any longer, and leaving a gaping Nathan, I took to the air again and fled the horror.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Autumn

  Coursework: Writing to Inform “My Life and Purpose”

  My name is Autumn Rose Al-Summers. I am almost sixteen years old and a Sage. As a guardian, I have one purpose in life: to defend humans, namely the students of Kable Community College, against the Extermino, a group of Sage who do not follow the rule of our monarch and who commit such terrible acts their scars have turned to gray.

  My grandmother, whom I lived with for eight years at St. Sap
phire’s School in London, is dead. Therefore, as a minor by human law, I am compelled to live with my parents in a sleepy seaside town on the south coast of Devon, possibly the most Sage-deprived place on earth.

  My people, the Sage, are feared, ridiculed, and held in awe by the humans of this dimension due to their self-administered wish to be ignorant of our culture. This is demonstrated quite perfectly by my experience of being a guardian: I started at Kable a year ago, and ever since have faced merciless bullying, with few friends to my name.

  Thankfully, I am about to embark upon my last year of compulsory education as far as humans are concerned, and all I have to do is endure ten more months of torture before I am free of the system and the required two years as a guardian. Yet, despite my hate of the place, you insist on my continuing to A-level at Kable. But I assure you: the Damned will set down their knives before that occurs.

  Moving on. I have blond hair. Auburn streaks. Natural, I might add. Liquid amber eyes. My legs are too short. My skin burns far too easily. (There, I will point out, are the simple sentences you complain my writing lacks.)

  And the worst thing? (I have inserted a rhetorical question. Am I ticking the grading-rubric boxes now?) The thing that means as a Sage, I can be singled out and targeted? The thing that means I am instantly identifiable as not belonging to the human race?

  My scars.

  All Sage bear them on their right side, and each Sage’s scars are different, like a fingerprint, serving as a reminder of what we are, what we possess, and what we wield.

  There. That is my life.

  P.S. I refuse to type my work, so you, sir—and the examiner, if my work is called for moderation—will have to, as you put it, “decipher” the elegant, curling script I was tutored in from age six. Furthermore, I found this whole exercise to be offensive to my intelligence. In its entirety, the coursework could have been written in half a lesson; setting it as summer homework was unnecessary.

  I scanned through the sheet again, feeling my lips flatten. Drivel. It was drivel—albeit truthful drivel, but such a rant would earn me a detention, or at the very least a caution. Yet the lure of causing a stir remained, forcing me to slide it into a plastic envelope and place it into my schoolbag, ready for the first day of the new academic year.