by Seren Goode
The Keystone: Finding Home
∞
Book 1 of the Elements Series
By
Seren Goode
The Keystone
Written and published by Seren Goode
Cover and Formatting by RMGraphX (Rhiannon Gilmore) at www.rmgraphx.com
© 2021 W.S. Goodman, Seren Goode, Goode Star Publishing, All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SerenGoode.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
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
The End
Acknowledgments
About Seren Goode
Dedication
To my family for their unwavering support. And to all the bright Stars in the universe, thank you for traveling with me.
Chapter 1
Dodging 101
San Francisco, California
I’ve found one of the best ways to avoid being picked up by the authorities is to just disappear. You sneak out, drop false trails, and double back, and when you are sure no one is following you, you swap out the plates on your vehicle. We always carried backups for Van Ekman, our ancient VW camper. Then, pull out a map, and with no rhyme or reason, pick a new town to call home.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
That’s my life—sixteen years as a nomad.
I used to love it, just the three of us, a team, moving to the next adventure. Now, when my dad changes jobs like some people change underwear, it just gives me a stomachache.
Van Ekman lurched and, with a shudder, stalled two feet short of the parking space.
Click. Click. Click. Holding my breath, I reached for the stone on my necklace and closed my eyes as Dad turned the key in the ignition again. Click. There was no roar of sound. The engine was dead.
There had been no traffic when we left a pre-dawn Santa Cruz, and we made good time heading south out of the beach city. Soon, we were looping and backtracking to our new destination. Hours later, struggling through congested San Francisco streets, my dad was white-knuckling the steering wheel as he looked for parking. I guess this was our new home. I had little say anymore. I don’t know why he picked this city. It’s so expensive, and driving was always a mess. Today was the worst. There was probably a big tech conference happening.
We had finally found a parking spot in a private garage. I hoped he didn’t plan on staying long because this place was going to cost us a fortune. I mentally counted what I had left of our rent money, about eighty dollars, and I cringed. That wouldn’t get us far.
“Okay, that’s it.” My dad slid out of the driver’s seat and left the door open for me to follow. “Grace, let’s go. We’re late.”
“Late?” I asked. He didn’t respond. Something on his phone had already caught his attention. He was so easily distracted, and I was starting to wonder if he was depressed again and trying to hide it. We hid so much from each other now.
Turning, I flipped the long mess of my green-streaked hair out of my face and wiggled over the back of my seat and into the back of the van. Using my arms, which were strong from open water swimming, I snaked my tall frame over the neatly labeled and stacked boxes that represented all our earthly possessions. I grabbed the strap of my messenger bag and pulled. It was stuck, so I yanked on the corner of a box until the strap slipped free.
Knowing the passenger door tended to stick, I slid across the front seat and out the driver’s door, pausing to push the gear into neutral, dragging the bag behind me.
“What are we late for?” I asked as we both braced against the frame of Van Ekman and pushed. As soon as the van started to roll, I jumped inside and stepped on the pedal, leaning my full weight into it. The brakes squealed in protest but finally relented, and the van stop neatly in the parking spot. Climbing out again, I checked the spacing. We were parked, or rather stalled, between an Audi and a BMW. The roof barely cleared the depressed ceiling of the parking garage. Van Ekman looked like a piece of bark wedged between two gleaming teeth.
Now what? I looked to my dad for direction. His brow was furrowed. His eyes were glued to his phone as he cycled through numbers to send a text, his fingers clumsy on the gadget’s miniature keys.
Who was he texting? Neither of us had any friends. We moved around too much, and we were our only family left. He caught me leaning forward to look at the screen and shoved the phone into a frayed pocket in his khakis. We stared at each other.
Weren’t we supposed to be in a hurry? The flutters in my stomach felt like guppies swimming around. I took a calming breath and kept my mouth shut as I settled my messenger bag over my shoulder and waited. Finally, Dad broke the silence.
“There are things about your mother’s life you don’t know…she was different; they all are—” He drew a long shuddering breath. Grief, longing, and fear all crossed his face then, but with a long blink, the emotions disappeared, like a door slamming shut.
Mom? What did she have to do with being in the city today? The churning in my belly grew as it always did when I thought about my mom.
“There’s not enough time to explain. I’m so sorry—Grace, I’ve always meant to tell you, but I didn’t know what to say, and now I’ve waited too long. Later, I promise, but now, we’ve got to go.” He grabbed my arm and rushed us out of the garage, the pinch of his fingers on my skin an awkward connection I craved as I fumbled along behind him.
Leaving the parking garage, we walked briskly through unfamiliar streets. The chilly, late-morning air held just a hint of salt. Stars, I missed the ocean. I paused at the top of a hill, breathing it in. The steep city was laid out around us, an urban quilt in shades of white, the occasional burst of green, and a border of blue that led up to the bridge. My dad trotted back and grabbed my hand, tugging me forward, a not so gentle reminder to keep up. He quickened his pace downhill into tightly packed residential neighborhoods, then up and down again and again, until my legs ached. We finally left the residential streets, the buildings changing to street-facing retail spaces, office buildings, and towering glass skyscrapers. The roads were packed with cars and the sidewalks with pedestrians late to work.
I had an impeccable sense of direction—and was completely lost. It must have been an hour before my dad stopped in front of a coffee shop and spun around. He glanced left, then right, searching for something. Then he looked me right in the eyes
.
“Grace, if something happens to me, you need to run. Don’t try to help, don’t go back to the van, leave everything, and run. Promise me.” He was earnest, and his out-of-breath plea ended in a whisper drowned out by the cadence of the city.
“What do you think is going to happen?” I struggled to understand.
“I don’t know…something doesn’t feel right. It’s not like before. When your mom was here, she always seemed to know what was happening. She stayed connected to them. This time…” He trailed off.
When Mom was here, a lot of things were different.
The flow of people on the busy sidewalk cut around us like an ocean current, slamming us together then pulling us apart, testing the elasticity of our frayed connection. The last year held some winners for us in the most-craptastic moments category. I studied the gray in his dark hair and the lines spidering out from the corners of his brown eyes.
He had changed.
I had changed.
And somehow, we just didn’t fit together anymore.
“Who are the ‘them’ you are talking about? Tell me what is going on.” I grasped at his arms, snagging a handful of his red knit sweater. It stretched as he was pushed by people swarming past until there was a break in foot traffic, and he made his way back to me, the sweater sagging, not reforming.
“Grace.” He made a strangled sound and pulled me into an awkward hug, whispering in my ear, “I can’t. It’s too dangerous. If you don’t know, maybe they won’t hurt you.” I was drowning in questions, and all I could manage was to tighten my shoulders, which he must have taken for acceptance.
Sighing, he released me but kept a hand on my arm as he pushed me ahead of him into the coffee shop.
He headed toward an empty table by the front window. My feet dragged as I twisted backwards, listening to his whispered instructions.
“I’m going to meet some people, friends of your mother. You need to stay here where it’s safe, well, safer.” He made the correction like the rest of his statement wasn’t completely insane.
“What?” I grabbed his hand. My mind shuttled from one fractured thought to the next. I needed order. What do I know? Dad is here to meet family of my mother. That was news to me. And they are dangerous. How? How are they dangerous—physically? Why? Why meet with them? Why now? I tried to sort through what I knew and analyze the situation, but I just didn’t have enough information.
“Dad, what is going on? You and mom are orphans.” The story ran like an omniscient narrator’s voice in my head, recounting how they met and immediately connected when they recognized the loneliness in each other.
“Yes, I know. These are more than friends but not quite family. They’re her foster siblings.”
“What?” I stumbled and he pushed me into a chair.
The shop was packed. All the bistro tables were full, and a long bench table was loaded with a mix of lunchtime co-workers and laptop users. Our table was probably only free because the surface was littered with used coffee cups and sandwich wrappers and had a mix of mismatched chairs and stools.
Dad perched on the stool across from me, looming over my chair with his brow pinched up, deepening the lines around his eyes, and his breath puffing in my face. It smelled of the bitter coffee he drank when he was driving.
“Her foster family…um…they’re different. Dangerous. That’s why it’s important you remember, Gracy, if something happens to me, run and don’t go back to the van,” he hesitated before adding, “and don’t trust anyone.”
I had so many questions. I opened my mouth to ask as Dad’s phone beeped. A quick glance, and his eyes widened. He stood as he read the message. I rose to follow, but he pushed me gently back.
“No. It’s safer for both of us if you stay.” Concern for him was the only thing that kept me in my seat. “They are waiting. I have to go. Remember what I said.” He backed away, his eyes soft as they studied my face. Then he left me there in a sea of questions.
I watched as he crossed the street, repeatedly looking left and right as he walked a half block and then entered a building as if he had known exactly where to go. The building was a wall of glass shooting up in the sky. With the first floor wrapped in advertisements about the advantages of living in the city, the structure extended so far up, even tilting my head, I couldn’t see the top through the café’s front window.
And so, I waited.
For the first hour, I stayed leaning forward, eyes glued to that door across the street, like a puppy waiting for its master to return. But as the adrenaline drained from my body, I slumped in the chair. I was so tired. Dad had woken me in the middle of the night and said we had an hour to pack up the apartment and leave.
This never would have happened with my mom. When it was the three of us, being nomadic was fun. We were the sailing three Musketeers, living on the boat with the world as my classroom. Mom turned everything into an adventure, and I got to help make the decision of where to go next. Once, I’d asked where the whales were going, and in a heartbeat, we had dropped everything and followed one of the migration routes for a week. I knew we didn’t live like everyone else, but we had each other, and it was fun. I was too young to ask questions like, “What happened to Dad’s job? How are we going to pay for food and dock slip rentals?”
For the last year, since Mom died, I’ve thought about nothing else.
When we lost her, we lost the captain of our ship who’d made our lives run smoothly.
Then we lost our home. When the boat was repossessed was when I first realized Dad wasn’t paying any bills, and I had to take over.
When we lost Mom, we lost our joy.
No. Nope. No time to dwell on that. I had a problem to solve. For the next hour, I sat with my face scrunched, thinking of all the questions Dad would have to answer when he got back. Why did Mom never tell me she had a foster family? Do they live here? Why haven’t I met them? Why are they dangerous? What happened that they don’t care about her anymore? Because if they cared, surely, they would have turned up at her funeral last year. But they hadn’t. It had just been Dad and me. I thought up more things to ask, but really, the answers to the first questions would dictate the next ones.
Maybe he wouldn’t answer any of them.
That was a depressing thought. I don’t know how long I sat hunched over, my sightline just barely over the rim of the windowsill, watching as the traffic that had eased after lunch started to pick up again for early rush hour.
My mind wandered as I fingered the stone in the necklace at my throat. It was my mother’s, the only thing she had ever given me—well, the only thing of any value. The necklace was a strip of flattened bronze with a lumpy rock on the end. In the non-valuable category, I also got her freaky genetics that left me with green streaks in my hair, which made me look like I was being strangled by seaweed and got me a lot of strange stares, even in towns where half the high school student had brightly colored hair. That reminded me of the last school I’d attended, and I lost myself in bad memories.
The shrill ring of my phone startled me. Jumping, I knocked over one of the empty paper coffee cups on the table. Pulling my neon yellow and grey messenger bag into my lap, I quickly dug around, looking for my phone. It was when it sounded again that I was able to locate it and realized I had two text messages.
I read and then reread the text, hoping it would make more sense.
Dad: The Helios are here! Run! Find Waters.
Chills raced up my arm when I read the second message. It was a single word.
Dad: Run!
I looked across the street, and my breath caught. Something was very wrong. There was no traffic, and at some point, several white vans and cars had double parked in front of the apartment building Dad had disappeared into.
And then there were the suits. About twenty people in what even I could tell were ill-fitting jackets
loitered across the street in front of the apartment building’s entrance, and more were visible in the lobby through the glass. They looked so out of place. Since we had arrived I had rarely seen a tie, and it seemed suits were worn for ironic effect rather than corporate necessity.
A motion across the street caught my attention. The large glass doors of the apartment building opened, and a tall, blond man came out. He looked like a movie star with perfect features marred only by an angry scowl. His arms were at an awkward angle in front, and two men flanked him, holding onto his elbows until they pulled him into one of the white vans.
Who was that? Did this have something to do with why my dad telling me to run? My hands had been shaking since I’d read the text message. I kept thinking, What if it was a mistake? I quickly typed a message.
Me: Dad, what is going in?
I hit send before realizing it wasn’t right. Hope swelled in my chest when, seconds later, my phone chimed.
Dad: All well, come home.
I read the message and blew out a sigh, and my skin began to buzz from the release of tension.
It was a minute before realization dawned, and I looked back at the message. It didn’t make sense. Our home was stalled in an expensive parking garage.
Why would he say to come home? What was going on?
More action across the street drew my attention. My heart leaped into my throat as the glass doors opened again, and my dad was led out of the building. The stretched-out sleeves of his baggy sweater sagged down his arms, but I could see a white band tied around his wrists. Like an incoming text, a ding went off in my head as I watched a man force him into the van. He couldn’t have typed the message. Looking down in horror at my phone, I had to resist the urge to drop it, like it was something dirty.
Some unknown person was sending me messages, and they wanted me to believe it was safe. I didn’t know what was going on, but it was the furthest away from safe you could get.
I had to get out of here. I scanned the shop. Besides the front door, there was a side entrance.
Stars knew where that led.