Awakening (Elementals Book 1)

by Sara Preucil

  “Tara?”

  “Hmm—oh yeah.” Tara remembered what he had said. “Yeah, I am.”

  “And once you get your chemistry degree, you can work with us. Won’t that be nice?” Dina smiled at Tara.

  “Yeah.” Tara tried to smile back, but, afraid that it looked unconvincing, took a sip of water to cover her mouth. She knew she should tell her parents about the boy in the stairwell. But as dinner went on, it was becoming harder and harder to do so. And then the plates were getting cleared, and her dad went back up to his office, and her mom was starting the dishes. And somehow, Tara found herself heading up to her bedroom, her encounter with the unnatural still kept secret.

  Chapter 34

  The sun sank lower on the horizon, seeming to race Briana as she hurried home along the nearly deserted road. The energy in the village was tense, like it was situated right in the eye of a great storm. Another fight had broken out earlier that afternoon involving anti-treaty civilians and a few soldiers from the National Army. Briana could sense the villagers gathering themselves up for another one.

  Briana had gone into town to visit her friend, Aine, who was one of four children that their war-widowed mother had been left to care for. Each time Briana visited, she took a basket of bread and that morning’s yield of eggs harvested from their tiny coop. She was readying to leave when the fighting broke out; Aine’s mother insisted that Briana stay while she sent her oldest son, Michan, out to make sure the danger had passed.

  Once Michan returned home with the news that the skirmish had been diffused, Briana took her leave, not wanting her mother to worry. She rushed home now, her reason for hurrying only partly due to her mother’s anxious feelings. Sunset meant curfew. Although the National Army enforced this rule much more strictly in the actual town limits, they occasionally patrolled the more rural areas. Briana didn’t want to get caught outside after dark.

  She ran down the muddy road, turnips from Aine’s mother tucked in the basket that swung at her side. With a smidge of daylight to spare, Briana reached home. Around the back of their house, near the chicken coop, was a small storage shed, which Briana headed straight for. She reached it, and in the fading light, she could see that the wooden door was already ajar. Carefully, she nudged it with the toe of her boot. When nothing out of the ordinary happened, she reached inside.

  A kerosene lantern sat in its usual place on the ground to the right of the doorway. Briana knelt down, gently twisted the glass tube away from the base, found the box of matches nearby, and lit the wick. She returned the glass cover, and stood up, lantern in one hand, basket of turnips in the other.

  With her elbow, Briana pushed against the shed door to open it wider, but there was a dull thunk, and it refused to budge. She squeezed into the narrow opening, and stepped around the door, lantern raised, to see what was blocking it.

  Briana gasped, dropping the basket of turnips on to the hard earthen floor. The white, round roots spilled out of the basket, rolling in all directions. One was stopped by the same muddy boot that prevented the shed door from fully opening.

  A young man was sitting on the ground, his back propped up against the corner where the shed’s walls met. His legs were sticking out in front of him. He was dressed in the olive green uniform of the National Army. One hand was clutching his side, the other held a small handgun. It was pointed at Briana.

  “Don’t scream,” he warned, his voice a low murmur.

  With a sickening click, he caulked the hammer back with his thumb.

  After a few agonizing seconds, in which the silence was filled by Briana’s racing heartbeats, the soldier lowered his gun.

  His brown eyes, full of suspicion, continued to watch her, and she was certain that if she made a wrong move, that gun would be pointing at her faster than she could retaliate.

  It appeared that they were at an impasse. In fact, the soldier didn’t seem to know what to do now. His chest rose and fell quickly, and there was a sheen of perspiration covering his young face. His dark brown, nearly black, eyes looked glassy as he glared up at Briana. He looked feverish. She glanced to the spot at his side where his other hand was clenching.

  A blood-soaked rag was gathered in his fist, and he pressed it against the lower right side of his abdomen.

  “You’re hurt,” she whispered.

  Without considering what she was doing, Briana dropped down on her knees, set the lantern on the ground next to her, and reached for the soldier’s hand, intending to inspect the wound. The gun, still in his other hand, pointed at her once more.

  Briana raised an eyebrow. “Do you want help or not?” She couldn’t believe what their country had come to. It wasn’t long ago that they had fought, united, for their independence, and now her own countryman was holding a gun at her because he’d rather slowly bleed out than trust her.

  Finally, the young soldier sighed and lowered his gun.

  “Let’s see, then.” Briana gently moved his bloody hand away from his side and gingerly lifted his shirt. A long, jagged gash ran up from his hip to his lower ribs. Fresh, scarlet blood still oozed steadily from the wound.

  “It’s not very deep.” Briana bit her lower lip, a habit while concentrating, as she inspected the area carefully with her fingers. “That’s good. And it doesn’t appear to have become infected.” The hazards of having a little brother meant she was well rehearsed in tending to all sorts of cuts and scrapes and even broken bones. “It needs to be cleaned and stitched up. I’ll fetch the supplies from the house.” She started to rise.

  The soldier’s hand darted out, latching around her wrist. Briana felt a funny little jolt of energy where his skin touched hers.

  “You’re going to tell someone that I’m here.”

  The thought hadn’t even crossed Briana’s mind. Realistically thinking, she ought to.

  “I won’t,” she said. And, as crazy as that was, she meant it. He seemed to believe her, or was too exhausted to argue, because after another moment, he released her.

  “Stay here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere in a hurry, lass.”

  Briana chuckled, at least he still had a sense of humor; that was a good sign. Quickly scooping up the turnips, she returned them to the basket, and hurried back to the house.

  “Where have you been?” Her mother’s worried face greeted Briana the second she stepped inside.

  “I’m sorry, Mam,” Briana handed over the turnips. “Nora wouldn’t let me leave until Michan could confirm that it was safe.”

  Her mother nodded. “That was smart of Nora.”

  Briana followed her mother into their small kitchen nook, passing her father and Liam from where they sat at the crackling hearth playing a card game.

  “Help yourself to some stew; we already ate,” her mother said, setting the turnips on the table. “I’m going to go lie down.”

  Feeling guilty that she had only added to her mother’s already prevalent anxieties, Briana slowly ladled herself a bowl of stew, sat down at the table, and began to eat. Soon, Liam passed out over his hand of cards, and their father scooped him up and carried him to bed. After wishing Briana goodnight, he too retired for the night.

  Briana washed her bowl, and then waited at the table for the house to grow still. Quietly, she deposited her bowl on a shelf of the old hutch that housed all their cookware and dishes. She bent down and opened the small door to the cabinet below, in which the sewing supplies were stored. Selecting some thread, a long needle, and a few scraps of fabric which she stuffed into the pocket of her skirt, she then closed the cabinet. Next, Briana filled up a small pot with water, hung it close to the dying flames at the hearth, and waited. Once steam began to rise, she removed the pot, and holding it carefully out in front of her, she headed for the door.

  Silently, she opened the door, peeking her head out to check that soldiers were not patrolling the road tonight, she then slipped out into the night. She moved as fast as she could over the soggy ground while conscious of the hot
water in the pot. Her breath was coming quickly by the time she reached the shed, and she couldn’t tell if she was nervous or excited to see the soldier again.

  Slowly, she inched the shed door open, the lantern light casting a thin beam on to the ground at her feet. “It’s just me,” she whispered, as she slid through the crack of the door.

  The soldier hadn’t moved, except maybe into a deeper slouch against the wall. He had been asleep, and his eyes flew open when Briana closed the door behind her. He moved to reach for his gun.

  “Aren’t we past that now?” Briana frowned, crossing her arms over her chest.

  The soldier dropped his hand, casting her a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

  Fearing she would be discovered missing any moment, Briana set to work. She moved around to the right side of the soldier, set the pot of steaming water down, and settled on to her knees, skirt folded under her legs.

  “Do you mind..?” She gestured to the brass buttons that fastened his olive green shirt, a flush of heat rose to her cheeks. She couldn’t believe how boldly she had just asked a man to undress. You’re helping him, she had to remind herself; there wasn’t anything lewd about her behavior.

  As Briana unloaded her pocket of the sewing supplies, the solider unbuttoned his shirt. Once she finished threading her needle, she looked up. The sight of his exposed torso caused her face to flame even more. The broad shape of him, the stark definition of muscle underneath his suntanned skin was so unfeminine—so masculine—that Briana experienced a moment of panic. What am I doing? She thought wildly. What would her parents say if they saw her in the shed with a strange man dressed like that? But then her eyes fell to his wound; blood was still slowly seeping from the long gash, so she got over her embarrassment and set to work.

  First, she grabbed one of the strips of fabric, dipped it into the pot of water, and then holding it over the wound, wrung it out. As the hot water hit his wound, the soldier let out a sound between a grunt and a moan.

  “Sorry,” Briana said, dunking the rag into the water once more. She continued to clean the area as quickly as possible, mumbling apologies as the soldier hissed from the pain. Once all the dried blood had been washed away, Briana grabbed the lantern and removed its glass top. She held the needle up to the flame, letting the fire disinfect it. She then set the lantern aside and positioned herself over the gash.

  “Ready?” She asked, holding the needle at the bottom of the torn flesh, near his hip.

  “Just get it over with.” He leaned his head back against the shed wall, and closed his eyes.

  Briana took a steadying breath, and pierced his skin. As she worked, she wished she had thought to look for something to numb the soldier’s pain. Surely her father had a bottle or two of whiskey hidden away somewhere in the house. But to his credit, the soldier stayed mostly quiet and flinched very little.

  “How did you get this anyway?” she asked, hoping to distract him.

  Through gritted teeth, the soldier answered. “A few of us were on patrol and were jumped by a group of townspeople outside a pub. Seems like they were held up in there, waiting for us to pass by. One of them pulled a knife on me.”

  Briana realized that he had to have been talking about the fight that broke out earlier that day.

  “Then what happened?” She asked, curiosity overtaking the pretense of distraction.

  “We weren’t prepared for a fight. Believe it or not, many of us don’t want to be fighting our own countrymen. We tried to diffuse the situation; one of my men fired a few shots into the air to scare the crowd, but it didn’t work. So we took off, but not after I got this,” he nodded to the knife wound, “and another soldier received a pretty good blow to the head from a flying rock.”

  “How did you end up here?” Briana was about three quarters of the way finished now.

  “We split up on our way back to camp. I got turned around, found myself on a muddy road outside town. Thought I’d fall over right in the road when I spotted this shed. Lucky it belonged to you.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of Briana’s mouth. “All right.” She finished her last stitch, pulling the thread taught, and tied it into a knot. She dipped her fingers into the water, cleaning the blood from them, wiped her hands dry on her skirt and picked up the unused strip of fabric. She held the strip out in front of her, judging its length against the soldier’s frame. “I bet we can wrap this around you. Can you sit up?”

  Obediently, he leaned forward, using his arms to prop himself up. Briana had to lean in so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Quickly, she wrapped the strip of fabric around his back, able now to lean back a bit as she tied it across his flat stomach, making a crude bandage to cover her amateur stitches.

  “I can’t guarantee that won’t scar,” she said.

  The soldier shrugged, then leaned back against the wall again. “Better than bleeding out.”

  As he settled back, his shirt shifted, opening farther to expose something dark over his chest, under the meeting of his shoulder and collarbone.

  “Oh, did the knife get you there too?” Briana pointed to the dark spot that peeked out of his shirt.

  “This? No.” He edged the fabric of his shirt back so that Briana saw that it was part of a tattoo.

  “The triskele,” Briana said, recognizing the three interlocking spirals. Absentmindedly, she reached out and traced one of the spirals with her finger.

  Outside, one of the chickens let out a loud squawk, and Brianna started.

  “I should go.” She stood up, and was at the door when the soldier asked—

  “What’s your name?”

  Her fingers, just seconds ago had been so carelessly touching his bare skin, now hovered over the cold doorknob. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Briana.”

  “Thank you, Briana,” the soldier breathed. “I’m Eagan.”

  A shy smile spread across Briana’s face, and then she was out the door, dashing across the muddied grounds to the house.

  Chapter 35

  The employees at Modern Alchemy were all buzzing with energy when Tara arrived at her internship after school the next day. The phone at reception was ringing off the hook to an empty desk. The receptionist was far too engrossed in an excited conversation in the corner with another employee to bother doing her job. Tara frowned; the unusual atmosphere made her feel uneasy.

  She crossed the white lobby and headed down the equally bright hall to the records offices in the back. Two more employees burst out of a door to her right, and hurried past her. She caught a snippet of their conversation as they rushed by.

  “When did this happen?” A middle-aged woman that Tara thought might be named Helen asked the younger man at her side.

  “In the middle of the night apparently. Luckily the security guard alerted…”

  Tara was now out of earshot of the whispered conversation and couldn’t hear any more.

  What’s going on? She wondered, increasing her pace. A face flashed through her mind: dark eyes and brows, a square jaw. Was it possible that the unnatural that cornered her last night was somehow involved? Tara turned the corner into the records department and headed straight for the first person she saw.

  “Hey, Krystal.”

  The young woman looked up from her computer, pushing her short bob away from her face. Her eyes seemed to dart around the room in an almost paranoid way before they settled on Tara.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Tara asked once she reached her desk. “Everyone seems really wound up.”

  “Yeah,” Krystal resumed her typing. “We’ve got another unnatural on campus.”

  “Since when?”

  “Late last night. Apparently, security says he tried to break in.” She chuckled. “What an idiot.”

  How many more of us do you have locked up in there? The unnatural’s words echoed around Tara’s thoughts. He had seemed a bit desperate; was it possible that after his encounter with Tara, he had tried to break
into MA?

  “What does he look like?” Tara blurted out.

  Krystal gave her an odd look. “How should I know? I don’t work upstairs.”

  “Right.”

  Tara turned away, intending to head to the small conference room where she did her work, but then she found herself heading back out of the office, into the hall, through reception, and stopping at the elevators.

  She hit the button with the up arrow and waited. Casually, she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone had taken notice of her, but the receptionist was now hurrying to her desk to answer the incessant ringing.

  The elevator doors opened with a ping, and Tara ducked inside, punching the button for the fourth floor and then jamming her thumb against the “door close” button. The steel doors closed and the elevator rose. Impatiently, she drummed her fingers against the side of her leg.

  Fortunately, when the doors opened, the first person Tara saw was exactly who she had been looking for.

  “Tara!” Her mom looked up, startled, from the clipboard in her hands. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Tara stepped off the elevator before her mom could get on and take her back downstairs.

  “Everyone in the office is saying that someone broke in last night,” Tara said, pretending to look scared. “Is it one of them?”

  Dina glanced around quickly before answering. “Yes,” she confirmed, and then placed a hand on Tara’s shoulder. “But there is absolutely nothing to worry about.” She then tried to steer Tara around. “You can’t be up in the labs. Let’s head back downstairs.”

  Tara didn’t budge. She needed to see him for herself. She wasn’t sure what she was hoping to discover: the same unnatural who confronted her or not.

  She could see that her mom’s patience was waning. Tara thought quickly.

  “It’s just that everyone downstairs is anxious.” She lied. “They’re scared that our containment systems aren’t good enough, and that we’ll have another issue like—”