(Sample)
Two months ago, my whole world shattered.
And who’s to blame for this tortuous new normal? Keith—an infuriating, no good, breaks up with me over the phone a-hole. And I’m the idiot who’s still in love with him.
After Keith cleaved my heart in two, I hid away from the world, mostly at my tree, a sprawling Southern live oak. Dripping with moss, the tree is old and scarred from previous storms. Over the years, this tree has become my home away from home—a place where I don't have to deal with reality—a place where I don't have to put on a show or make people believe I'm okay.
Sitting beneath my tree now, lost in thought, the day before my senior year starts, I look around the storm-ravaged woods. It rained for nearly two weeks, and the forest floor has been shifted from last night's strong winds. A dullness falls over me and the forest. My clothes already stick to me from the humidity. The sun is obscured by the clouds. A ray, however, escapes every so often, and I watch it play on the leaves of the trees before disappearing again.
As my broken heart pounds out radiating burn after radiating burn, all I can think about is Keith: his dirty blond hair as he runs his fingers through it; his tender blue eyes looking at me with longing; his warm hand in mine; his lips grazing my own. I picture the way he carelessly throws his head back, laughing as we share our own private world. I smile at the thought, wishing he was here, just as another ray of sun penetrates the clouds. The ground shimmers in the striking sun and catches my eye. I gaze at the spot for several minutes as a ray of sunlight dances on it. As the minutes pass, I grow more and more curious. Spellbound, I get on my hands and knees and crawl toward it.
When I get close, I discover the spot is a hole with some sort of glimmering liquid inside. A piece of glass covers it. I push the leaves aside to get a better look, and I find it's about the size and shape of a sewer plate on a street. The top is grimy, so I rub it with my hand to remove as much soil as I can. Around the edges of the glass are embossments of some kind, thrashing their way along the circle. They look similar to deep gashes that have healed into raised scars, and I've never before seen anything like them.
Mesmerized, I run my fingers over them, and an unease in the pit of my stomach tells me I should run away. As my fingers trace around the edge of the glass, I push another bunch of leaves away to reveal a lever. My hand hovers over it as I press my face into the glass, trying to see what's inside. Through the swirling, faintly glowing liquid, I begin to see something. At first, it's hard to see through the haze, but as my eyes adjust, I can make out hands. My stomach barrels further down my gut as my heartbeat quickens.
I study the hands beneath the shimmering blue liquid, and they appear to float around, but not lazily. I can tell they are still attached to their arms as if they're reaching for something or waiting to be pulled to safety. My mind turns, searching for an explanation, as I draw my hand away from the lever. Is this a grave? I wonder. There's no marker, and it's nowhere near the old family plot. I've also never heard of anyone being buried in this manner, out in the middle of the woods, in some sort of glowing liquid.
A strange sensation runs through my arm and radiates into my hand, like some supernatural force is guiding it to pull the lever. I don't fight, allowing my body to yield to it, too curious to fight it. I grip the lever and slowly, but forcefully, pull it down. A hiss escapes from the hatch as I open the glass door. Thick fog oozes from the sides.
Breathing again—I stopped a while back—I squat next to the hole, put my fingers around the edge of the glass door, and pull the hatch all the way open.
I fully expect some monster to jump out at me. I sit, still as a statue, watching the hands wave around. Suddenly, like the guiding push I felt before, I'm overcome with the need to grab them and pull. I fight this urge because I don't want to touch the hands. The thought of what they might be attached to frightens me. The urge begins to push my body downward, and my hands thrust unwillingly into the ice-cold liquid. I scream when I grip the hands in the hole; they're cold and limp. My body is then forced up and back into a pulling motion, and I relent to the unceasing power. Arms and broad shoulders with a dark head of shaggy hair hanging limply over a downward pointing face emerge. I hurriedly release his hands and grab him around his chest in a bear hug before he slides back down. I pull again and fall to my butt in the process with him on top of me. “Mothertrucker,” I curse under my breath. Using my last bit of energy, I roll him off onto his back.
I wipe a thin sheen of sweat from my brow, and my breath picks up even faster now. He is unquestionably one of the most handsome boys I've ever seen. A slow burn unfurls its way through my stomach and all the way up to stain my cheeks as I look him over—he is completely naked. I want to avert my eyes, but I'm too intrigued to look away. He has a faint blue hue to his skin, and a lean, muscular build. Shimmery liquid still clings to his skin and causes his washboard abs to glisten in the sun. I move his shaggy brown hair from his face. The face behind the hair is attractive, peaceful, and angular, with a strong brow and full lips. “Holy crap!” I didn't think my cheeks could get any hotter, but they're on fire, and I feel like I might faint, though I'm not sure if it would be from exertion, humidity, or him.
A black tattoo that looks just like the etchings on the glass hatch slashes its way haphazardly down the right side of his body—starting at his elbow on the inside of his arm and stopping just above his armpit. Then the tattoo continues just below his armpit, running to the top of his hip and halfway across his chest. I run my fingers over this part of the tattoo and then suddenly pull back, shocked—it’s not a tattoo but scars. My brain turns this new information over and over, trying to understand why he would allow his skin to be mauled in such a way. The more I study the scars, the more menacing and beautiful they become. Gently, I place my fingers on his neck to check for a pulse. Nothing.
Hesitantly, I move my fingers back down his chest and to the scars going down the side of his torso. I softly run my fingers down the length of it.
His mouth opens, and he inhales deeply, gasping for air.
I jump back, heart pounding.
Before I even know what's happening, a dagger appears in his hand. He sits up, and quicker than humanly possible, he grabs my hand and slices my palm with the sharp blade. I cry out in pain and watch in horror as warm blood trickles from my hand. With lightning speed, he slits his own palm, grabs my bloody hand, and holds it to his.
“Wish in me for I am bound by blood to grant you three,” he says in heavily accented English before I can come to my senses and wrench my hand away.
He releases my hand, breathing heavily. What looks like silky blue pajama pants appear on his lower half, and all I can do is sit here, paralyzed in disbelief. A tear runs down my cheek—palm stinging from the blade—as I watch his soft gray eyes carefully look me over.
He notices. “Forgive me,” he says as he moves toward the liquid in the hole. He scoops some into his hand and brings it over to me. Hesitantly, he reaches for my hand, and the look in his eyes tells me to trust him.
I give him my bloody hand.
He pours the glistening liquid over it, and it heals immediately.
My breath pushes out.
He smiles, and the edges of his eyes crinkle slightly.
I can't help but return the smile, feeling a calmness that shouldn't be there wash over me.
He moves back to the hole and dips his own hand into it briefly. He gazes at his healed hand. “It always amazes me,” he says, looking over to me. I notice his accent is almost gone, and he sounds more like an American teenager from the South. The color of his skin is also changing from pale blue to a peachy tan as his gorgeous gray eyes stare at me.
All I can do is watch him with awe and curiosity.
His expression turns inquisitive. “What year is it?” he asks.
I try to speak, but the words stick in my throat. “Two thousand twelve,” I rasp.
“One hundred thirty-six years,” he mutters.
One hundred thirty-six years? I think, bewildered. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the events unfolding before me.
“I am guessing I am in the American South?” he continues.
I nod.
He smiles wryly. “It is odd for me to be on the same continent twice in a row, much less the same country. What state?” he asks.
I clear my throat and say, “South Carolina,” even though I get the feeling he doesn't need to be told.
He looks down. “Last time, I was in Montana.”
“What are you?”
For a fleeting second, his look is quizzical but becomes intense. “I am a bloodbinder.”
“Bloodbinder?” I ask and look down at my palm.
“I bind my blood to my finder's blood. By doing this, I am able to ascertain information, like your history, language, needs, and desires—it is how I am able to keep up with the world. Often times, the picture is incomplete. The insight into my finder is thorough, though. And I must say, you live in complex times—so much information. It is much more exciting than what I have known.” He studies me for a moment. “I know your name is Riley Elizabeth Monahan,” he continues. “I know you are suffering. There is something you want, and I can grant it, if you wish.”
