by Sara Preucil
“Cute outfit.” Emmy cast a look at Mariah’s shorts. “But aren’t you cold?”
“Nah, it’s always warm in here.” Mariah shrugged.
Emmy, suppressing a shiver, had to disagree. But, then again, she hated being cold and any temperature under seventy degrees was unwelcome to her. Unfortunately, that was Bellingham for most of the year.
Finishing the last bit of her breakfast, Emmy leaned her back against her locker, and stared absently across the hall. Taped above the opposite lockers was a banner that the cheerleaders had made in support of the football team. In bubbly, red letters were the words, Go Raiders!
Just like Emmy feared, Mariah, catching sight of the banner, said, “You’re coming to the game with me.”
“Do I have to?” Emmy whined halfheartedly, already knowing the answer. Mariah had a crush on one of the football players and was determined to go to all the games.
“Come on, support your girl,” Mariah pouted. “Besides, isn’t Austin our first-string kicker this year? Won’t he want you to come see him play?”
“I suppose,” Emmy admitted. Austin’s true athletic abilities were on the soccer field, but since their previous kicker graduated last spring, Austin, who had served as second string, had now been promoted. While Emmy enjoyed watching him play soccer last spring when they first started dating, the idea of sitting outside in autumn to wait around for him to kick field goals sounded kind of miserable. But, knowing Mariah, she would make it more bearable.
“Speaking of…” Mariah nudged Emmy in the arm.
Emmy turned around just as Austin was approaching her locker.
Spring quarter of their junior year, in a stuffy, small classroom, Emmy first laid eyes on Austin Whitlock. She was the new kid then, having just transferred to their school that day. The art history teacher, Mrs. Cooke—a tight-lipped middle-aged woman that dressed in all black with a serious caffeine addiction—had just wrapped up her lecture on Dutch artists, and the students were filing out of the classroom. Emmy was tucking away her notes on Rembrandt, when a passerby knocked her book off her desk.
“Sorry!” The sandy-haired boy turned around and hurried to retrieve Emmy’s book from the industrial gray carpeted floor. He stood up and handed her the book with a sheepish grin on his adorable face.
“I’m Austin.” He offered up his hand.
“Emberly.” She shook his hand. “Everyone calls me Emmy.”
The next week, after a lecture on the Dutch Golden Age, with an image of The Night Watch still projected on the screen at the front of the class, Austin had asked Emmy out.
She quickly discovered their similarities. They shared the same taste in music: alternative rock and—out of regional loyalty—a healthy respect for grunge. They both liked action films, neither of them having missed a single one of the recent slough of comic book inspired movies. And since they were both solidly in the middle of their class academically, they shared many of the same subjects, staying away from the advanced courses and just focusing on the basic requirements for graduation.
Blissfully, they dated their way through the rest of the spring and into the summer, and had just began their senior year as a solidly establish couple.
“Ready to go to class?” Austin asked, his sandy hair dipping into his hazel eyes as he looked down at Emmy. Emmy smiled, even after five months, she was still amazed that this gorgeous boy was her boyfriend. They had spent much of their summer vacation on the shores of Lake Whatcom, and while Austin had tanned nicely into a golden Adonis, Emmy’s fair skin had burned a bright lobster red and then returned to its usual porcelain. Even though Austin’s tan was now starting to fade, he still carried some of the summer gold in the highlights of his hair and brows; the color brought back warm memories.
As if on cue, the first bell rang. Emmy smiled. “Let’s go.” She took Austin’s hand, waved goodbye to Mariah, and she and Austin made their way through the tide of students to the biology classroom.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. They were handed a new list of vocabulary words in second period Spanish class, all which pertained to household objects. Third period, Emmy and Austin had art together and were beginning the semester with oils. There was a substitute in Emmy’s fourth period English class, so they watched another reenactment of some Shakespearian play, the details of which were lost on Emmy. Instead, she had immersed herself in mindless doodling on the back of her notebook, while Mariah spent the film trying—and failing—not to appear obvious as she watched her crush, Tyler, instead of the screen. In gym class, Mariah gushed that she had successfully made eye contact with her football-playing crush, during said ignored film.
In world history, Emmy’s last subject of the day, they were discussing early Mesopotamian civilizations. Her head propped up by her hand, Emmy was writing “wedge-shaped” next to the term “cuneiform” when the final bell of the day rang.
“The usual?” Emmy asked Mariah as they were pulling out the necessary textbooks from their lockers and stuffing them into their backpacks. Another bummer about Austin being on the football team was that he was always busy after school, but Emmy and Mariah had established a pretty good tradition.
“Yeah!” Mariah beamed.
They lugged their full bags out to the parking lot and clambered into Emmy’s Geo. She drove them to their favorite hangout, Boulevard Park, which sat right on the bay, its long boardwalk stretching to the neighboring hamlet of Fairhaven.
At the coffee shop, they snagged a couple of seats that looked out at the water. Sipping on their mochas, they proceeded to “study,” which more-or-less always turned into goofing off, people watching, and gossiping.
It was close to eight o’clock in the evening by the time Emmy pulled into the Lewis’ driveway. They weren’t too particular about curfew, but she knew better than to push it too late on school nights.
The damp, peeling wood stairs at the front porch protested loudly as Emmy walked up them and into the house.
To the right of the small entryway was the living room; she could hear the sound of a laugh track coming from the television, so she poked her head around the corner.
Dianne was sitting slumped into the striped green couch that faced an old entertainment center. She was still in her blue scrubs, her white sneakers were propped up on the coffee table in front of her. Two crumpled beer cans were lying on the table at her feet. She was working on her third.
“Hi Dianne,” Emmy said, “I’m home.”
Dianne turned around to look at Emmy. She was still quite pretty, although years of hard work and alcohol consumption had dulled and wrinkled her complexion. Her brown hair, now beginning to gray, was pulled back into a tight ponytail.
“How was school?” Dianna asked.
“Fine.” Emmy scratched the back of her leg with the toe of her boot.
“There’s leftovers in the fridge.” Dianne turned her attention back to her sitcom.
Although not particularly cold, Dianne wasn’t exactly matronly, and Emmy always suspected that they fostered her for the monthly checks. But that didn’t bother her so much. They were kind enough, if not distant, and never let her starve. Nor were they by any means abusive. Yet they were miles from being a real family, more like housemates.
Still wearing her backpack, Emmy headed into the kitchen which was just to the left of the entryway. She opened the fridge, found a container of spaghetti, made herself a plate, and put it in the microwave.
A couple of minutes later, steaming plate in hand, Emmy made her way slowly up the staircase and into her room. She set the spaghetti on her desk and dumped her backpack on the floor. Fishing out her English textbook, she proceeded to work through the questions at the end of the first chapter in between bites of pasta.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time she had finished all her homework. Emmy sighed, sat back in the desk chair, and stretched her arms overhead. She got up, changed into a pair of oversized pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt, and then headed fo
r the bathroom at the top of the landing. Returning to her bedroom, she cracked open one of the windows by her bed. Fresh, damp air slowly entered through the small space, bringing with it the familiar smell of the lush, wet environment as well as an amplified percussion of rain. Emmy climbed into her bed and snuggled under the thick quilt. She glanced at her phone to double check that the alarm was set.
Austin had texted her while she was in the bathroom.
Goodnight.
Next to the word was the emoji of a kissy face. Emmy smiled, typing the same in response before leaving her phone on the nightstand. Still smiling, she closed her eyes.
Chapter 3
Barlovento, Venezuela, 1730
Kenna’s heart pounded in her chest as she ran, her bare feet hitting the ground, propelling her at a pace she knew she wouldn’t be able to maintain for much longer. She just needed to find water, to erase her scent from the dogs that would no doubt be leading her pursuit.
She wasn’t sure how badly she had injured him, but she had left him unconscious on the barn floor, the shovel thrown hastily to the side before she fled.
✽✽✽
Her master had always treated her kindly. She had been purchased to serve as a playmate, and eventually as a maid, for his daughter. The girl, Ana, was just as kind, always treating Kenna like a sister, never giving orders. Unlike the mistress who snapped constantly at Kenna and lacked the maternal glow that Kenna’s own mother had possessed. She favored her son, Eduardo, the older child who was just as nasty and rude as his mother and had grown into a lurking, pock-marked young man.
Sometimes when Kenna was hanging laundry or working alone in one of the plantation’s many extensive gardens, she would experience that hair-raising, eerie feeling that she wasn’t alone, and often she suspected that Eduardo’s empty glances were the reason why.
It had become more frequent—that feeling of being watched—as Kenna grew into a young woman. She had heard rumors of how Eduardo had treated other slave girls, the same way many of the pale men did.
And finally, that night he had approached her. She had been shoveling out the barn when the sharp smell of rum burned her nose, alerting her to his presence.
She had turned just in time to move back, her small, lithe frame allowing her to dance just barely out of his reach. Eduardo’s missed lunge for her caused him to fall clumsily to the floor. Cursing violently, he pushed himself up.
He stumbled over to Kenna, grabbed her frock, ripping the neckline as she tried to pull away. The garment slumped off her shoulder as he made another move for her.
She had pushed as hard as she could against his chest, but he was much larger than her, and didn’t budge. His hand gripped her left arm tightly, cutting off the flow of blood so that her fingers began to tingle. She tried to yank her arm loose, but when that didn’t work, she smacked him across the face as hard as she could with her free hand.
Eduardo snarled and backhanded her. Kenna fell, sparks erupting across her vision, into the pile of coarse hay at her feet. As she struggled to push herself up, Kenna’s hand found the handle of the shovel, all but forgotten in the fray. She stood up, backing away from Eduardo, telling him to stop, but when he lunged for her again, she swung the shovel, catching him in the jaw with a sickening twang of ringing metal. Eduardo crumpled to the floor.
✽✽✽
In the distance, a dog howled.
Kenna pushed herself forward, cursing her short strides. If they caught her, she was dead for sure. The moonlight cast speckled shadows on the path through the trees above, making breached roots nearly impossible to see. She had already stumbled more than she would have liked. But finally, she reached a clearing, and fortunately—her heart skipping at the sight of it—the river.
She dashed into it without pausing, splashing the frigid water high overhead. She dived, submerging herself into the moving water. Immediately, she was swept into the current, and started paddling, attempting to cross it at a diagonal, as she had been taught was best.
Quickly, Kenna realized that she had underestimated the violent pull of the river, and overestimated her ability to cross it. She fought against the current, but it soon began to overtake her. Her wet frock grew heavy and the weight started pulling her under. She kicked hard, and clawed frantically with her hands against the rushing water, but her head dipped beneath the surface of the icy black river.
The shock of the cold sent a panic through Kenna. She pushed even harder, her muscles screaming against the effort, and finally she managed to breach the surface. She gasped for air, gulping down river water, before being pulled under again.
Kenna fought, but it was soon evident that she was losing. Her chest contracted against her held breath. Her limbs grew heavy, and her head became fuzzy. The roaring sound of the water in her ears began to dull.
Dazedly, she felt something solid hook around her waist.
Next thing Kenna realized, she was lying face up on the shore, her back against the smooth flat rocks. With a sudden urgency, she rolled over onto her elbow, and coughed up a flood of water. She rolled on to her back again, sucking air into her burning lungs.
Rocks shifted somewhere to her right and she realized that she wasn’t alone.
Slowly, she turned her head to see a figure sitting a few body lengths away, watching her.
He was a colonist, as they called themselves, as was evident by his light skin and hair. He was young, not much older than Kenna by appearances, and he was dripping wet. Kenna realized that he must have fished her out of the river.
But why? Why would a colonist bother risking their own life to save hers?
Unless he meant to take her back.
Spurred by that fear, Kenna vaulted to her feet. Her legs, still weak from exertion, gave out from under her the second she put weight on them, and she fell to her hands and knees.
“Wait,” the man said, speaking clumsily in her master’s tongue. He moved slowly toward Kenna. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
Kenna began to crawl away from him, her hands trying in vain to find much purchase against the slick, smooth river rocks.
“Wait, please,” he said, much closer now. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Kenna stopped. Partly because she heard the sincerity in his voice, but mostly because she knew that escape was futile. She was exhausted; she couldn’t outrun the man if she tried.
She sat down, and grudgingly looked up at the young man. His light hair was slicked back into a short ponytail, he reached up and pushed back the damp strays that had plastered to his face. Droplets of river water ran from his hairline into his unshaven stubble. He hovered close to Kenna, concern etched into the corners of his mouth. Warily, she met his gaze.
And her world shifted.
There was something present in the stranger’s eyes—eyes that even in the moonlight, she could tell were the palest blue. Something in them seemed to call to her. To her soul. A strange sense of knowing took hold, like a certainty of Kenna’s place in the universe.
In a moment that seemed to stretch endlessly before them, he started back at her with a look of bewildered surprise. And then he smiled, like he knew something that she didn’t.
A dog howled, and with a sickening jerk, Kenna was suddenly pulled back to reality. And the reason why she had been in the river in the first place.
A second howl pierced the night, much closer this time.
The stranger whirled around to face the river. He growled something under his breath that Kenna didn’t understand. She followed his gaze.
Three men on horseback alongside four yelping, ecstatic hounds were poised on the opposite side of the river. Eduardo was among them, shouting orders at the other men, who began driving their horses into the river. The men whooped vilely at the sight of their caught prey.
“You’re dead!” Eduardo shouted from atop his horse, locking eyes with Kenna.
Kenna grew cold.
The stranger glanced down at her again, catching her with h
is depthless gaze. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, seeming to wrestle with indecision. Then he began to move.
Leaving Kenna’s side, he made his way to the edge of the river. Kenna watched, curious, as he raised his hands overhead. She could see through the damp fabric of his white shirt that his muscles were flexed, even his fingers contracted as they worked against some invisible force.
And then, strangely, the river began to rise. Kenna frowned as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. The water around the horses pulled away from the natural flow of the river, growing—like vines along a tree’s trunk—up the horse’s bodies. The liquid tendrils wound themselves around the riders’ legs. They yelled out in confusion.
The blonde stranger clenched his hands into fists and, suddenly, brought down his arms. Somehow, the water pulled the riders from their mount and into the river, the current carrying the flailing men out of sight. Their horses, however, scampered safely back to the bank.
Kenna stared in disbelief, but it lasted for only a second before a smile spread across her face.
Of course.
How ignorant she had been, considering what she herself could do. It made perfect sense that there were others with similar abilities. What struck her most in that discovery, was that she hadn’t before witnessed someone using them to successfully fight back. Kenna had long thought that the best way to survive was to hide her gift altogether. Now she realized she had been wrong.
Across the river, fear and disbelief contorting his pocked face, Eduardo pulled at the reigns of his horse, willing it back.
Feeling a renewed strength, Kenna rose to her feet and with sure, steady strides, made her way to the riverbank.
“Can you get me across?” she asked the stranger.
He smiled knowingly at her, then raised his hands out at chest level. At this proximity, Kenna could see his muscles twitching with the effort. He then splayed out his fingers, and Kenna watched with amazement as ice formed on the surface of the river, bridging the two banks in a shimmering walkway no wider than Kenna’s arm span.