Riven: Young Adult Fantasy Novel (My Myth Trilogy Book 1) Page 2

  Oh, Emma, the little girl in my head swoons. He’s like a handsome knight coming to rescue you!

  “I just came down on it funny.” Limping slightly, I follow him around to the trunk. “It’s fine. Really. Thanks again for the help.”

  He deposits the groceries in the trunk and turns to face me, leaning against the civic with his arms folded across his chest.

  “I’m sorry Gabe. I’ve got to go. My family’s waiting for me.”

  “No, Emily.” Lightning quick he grabs hold of my right arm. I twist to get away but his grip is too tight. Slowly, gently, he inches my sleeve up to my shoulder. “Not until you tell me about this.”

  The scaly infection encircling my upper arm has blistered in the short twenty minutes I shopped for groceries. While I watch, angry pustules burst open, seeping milky yellow pus.

  Nausea curdles in my throat, flooding my mouth with pre-vomit spit.

  A shrill metallic chirr—the screech of a thousand cicadas—pierces my eardrums as panic chokes my lungs.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  The tendons in my neck ache for oxygen but I can’t get any air. Everything around me slows. The only sound I can hear above the cicada’s grating song and the pounding rush of blood in my ears is the little girl’s awe-struck voice in my mind.

  Emma, your arm…it’s glowing.

  A pinprick of light sparks into existence, floating directly in front of my chest.

  Your Spark, Emma. Breathe it in!

  Frantic, I obey, sucking air as hard as I can. The speck yanks back into my mouth. I swallow without thinking.

  Bad idea.

  The speck expands inside my chest, bigger, bigger, BIGGER until I know I’ll burst into a thousand fractured bits. I have to get it out. I have to push it out. Focusing on my diaphragm, I force every ounce of breath from my body in short broken pants…

  “STOP.” Gabe shouts the word that can’t penetrate the mad rush in my head. His hand tightens on my shoulder and I stumble back. I’ve got to get away from him.

  “Stop,” he repeats, his mouth softening. He lets go of my shoulder.

  Lack of oxygen stipples my fingertips and lips. Dread rages against my edges from the inside out. I wrap my arms around myself, whimpering.

  “Emily. Listen to me,” Gabe’s voice tunnels into my brain. “You need to relax.”

  Listen to him, Emma.

  Emily. Stop this nonsense. You are embarrassing yourself.

  The shapeless mass hammers my ribcage. Black dots cloud my vision—a horde of swarming insects—I shove them away.

  They shove back. The world tilts.

  “Emily. Stop fighting. Breathe. It’s going to be okay.”

  Stop fighting, please! Stop fighting stop pushing! This is Magic, Emma. It won’t hurt you.

  I stop pushing. The mass shrinks ever so slightly.

  Now breathe, Emma.

  Oxygen fills my lungs. The swarming insects retreat. My vision clears.

  “Good, Emily. Everything’s fine.” Gabe’s voice is steady.

  “Everything is NOT fine!” I pant.

  “Relax,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

  “I can’t!”

  “Yes you can. Give me your hand.”

  My hand is cramped closed in a bloodless grip, nails digging half-moons deep into palms, but I don’t pull away when he reaches for me.

  “You can trust me, Emily. I want to help you.”

  Trust him, Emma. We need him.

  His touch is firm. Slowly, he pries my fist open. The vice grip of fear around my chest unclenches little by little as his thumbs rub color back into my blanched fingers in slow-tender circles.

  And then the dark mass implodes back into a golden spark in the middle of my chest before winking out of existence as if it had never been.

  My knees buckle.

  Gabe encircles my waist as I sag toward the asphalt. My neck won’t hold my head up.

  “Emily, NO.” He lifts my chin from where it slumps onto his shoulder. He’s so strong. This feels good. This feels safe. I need to lean against him just for a minute longer.

  But he’s impatient. “Please open your eyes.” His breath tickles my ear. “Please, Emily. Look at me. Please.”

  His please is scared. That can’t be good. I will myself to open my eyes.

  Relief floods his face.

  “Whoa.” I double over with my head between knees until the dizziness fades. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

  When I finally straighten, Gabe takes the keys and steers me back around to the front of the car. “Sit down,” he instructs, opening the driver-side door.

  I sit. Yow. It’s sweltering.

  He reaches across me, turning the key in the ignition and cranking up the AC. The promise of cold air hits my face. I let my head fall forward to rest on the steering wheel.

  “I wish you’d stop doing that.” He shuts the door and walks around to the passenger side.

  I stare at him in disbelief as he climbs in. “You wish I’d stop doing what? Putting my head down? I nearly fell on my face in the parking lot!”

  “You didn’t nearly fall on your face. Trust me. You were never in any danger of falling on your face.”

  “Excuse me?” Indignation floods my cheeks with shiny red heat that makes July feel wintery. “Who do you think you are, anyway?” I demand. “Why are you even in my car? Why are you following me?”

  “Yes,” Gabe encourages. “Get angry. That’s good!”

  Something snaps inside. “You’re laughing at me?”

  “I’m sorry.” His smile disappears. “It isn’t funny. At all. But anger’s better than fear. At least you’re breathing again.” He smooths back a lock of hair that’s fallen into my face, tucking it gently behind my ear.

  My anger evaporates, leaving me naked. Outside the window, carts bang against each other in the return. Hickory-laced barbecue smoke from the Hard Eight across the street sends a growl through my stomach. It’s several long seconds before I can look at him again.

  “What happened?” My voice is weak over the blast of now mercifully cold air.

  “You had a panic attack.”

  Oh. A panic attack.

  “That horrible screeching sound…my throat was closing up, I couldn’t get any air. And then my arm…it started glowing! When I finally caught my breath I sucked the spark into my lungs. It grew so fast…it was huge. I was trying to push it out…”

  “You were hyperventilating.”

  “But what was making that horrible screeching sound? Was there a crash? What was that spark thingy?”

  “There wasn’t any screeching, Emily. Your arm wasn’t glowing. I didn’t see any spark.”

  It was all in my head? I press the heels of my hands against my eyelids, holding back tears. “My chest hurts. Something’s wrong with my heart.”

  “There nothing wrong with your heart, I promise. That’s from the adrenaline. It’ll stop hurting soon. It’s scary as hell, I know, but it’s over now.”

  “This has never happened to me before. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Thank you. For staying with me. For making it stop.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m obviously the one who triggered it. I should probably mind my own business, but I had to say something. I saw what you did.” He nods at my arm.

  My head falls forward again, my hair shielding my face.

  You ridiculous little girl. DO NOT CRY.

  I scrape the tears away before they can fall.

  “Emily, you can trust me.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.“

  Trust him, Emma.

  No, Emily. Don’t trust strangers
. Make him go away.

  “It’s not a big deal. Just an itchy rash. I guess I’ve been scratching it too much…”

  “Bullshit.”

  I cringe at his curse. My hands twist themselves together. What exactly did he see, just the blood? Or more?

  His low whistle is more frustration than contempt. “Come on, Emily. A rash in the shape of letters?”

  All the blood in my body rushes to my skin. I can’t see them, but I know giant shame splotches blossom on my neck and chest. I hate him for having seen the strange letters. I hate him for asking. But worst of all I hate that even if I tell him the truth he’ll never believe me. Because the truth is, I don’t know how the weird angular script got carved on my arm or what it means. And that freaks me out most of all.

  Make something up.

  “It was a game.” I mumble the lie at my lap. “I just wanted to see if I could. What it would feel like, you know?”

  You’re a stupid, helpless child. You need to fix this Emily, so he’ll leave and you’ll never have to see him again.

  “What do they mean?” he asks softly. “The symbols you carved. What do they say?”

  I close my eyes in resignation and hug my arm closer to my side. “Nothing. They don’t mean anything.”

  “They look like they mean something. What about the one from last week? Was that just a game?”

  Oh my God. He saw that, too.

  You careless pathetic baby.

  “I was just messing around.”

  “It must have taken a long time. Didn’t it hurt?”

  Exhaustion pours over me. I don’t even have the strength for humiliation anymore. “Listen. I’m sorry if it freaked you out. It’s nice of you to be concerned. I’m fine, and I promise I won’t do it again.”

  Always making promises you can’t keep.

  “You can’t do it again Emily. Whatever you use to brand with was obviously dirty. Your arm is infected. You need to take care of it or the infection will spread. And you need to talk to someone. To a professional.”

  “I have a therapist.” Had. Six years ago, in Utah. Not that it’s any of his business. Not that a therapist would believe I’d woken up covered in weird symbols with no clue how they’d gotten there any more than Gabe would. Any more than I do. I force a tight smile onto my face. “I have to go now, Gabe. My brothers and sister are waiting.”

  “All right. But let me give you my number. You know, for when you want to talk.” He grabs a pen from the cup holder and scrounges an In-N-Out receipt off the floor, scrawls across the back and hands it to me.

  “Whatever you’re going through is going to get better.” He opens the door and steps out into the stifling heat. “I promise.”

  Now he’s making promises he knows nothing about.

  I pull out of the parking lot while he stands there watching me with his hands shoved in his pockets. The need in his eyes makes me more uncomfortable than anything else that’s happened today.

  As soon as I turn left onto Denton Tap Road I roll down the window and let the wind carry the crumpled receipt away.

  Littering is illegal.

  SHUT. UP.

  Three

  I stop to put a few gallons in the Civic and check my phone. Eight missed calls and five texts. All from Aidan.

  ‘WHERE R U!!???’

  ‘U’ve ben gone an HOUR’

  ‘We’re STARVING’

  ‘Aunt Nancy is waiting for you.’

  ‘When r u coming home???’

  I’ve got to be better at keeping my stress to myself. Aidan soaks it up like a sponge.

  ‘SORRY!’ I reply. ‘On my way!!! L L’

  Jacob must have called Aunt Nancy and ratted about my arm. The good news is that means they probably haven’t bothered Mom.

  Fresh shame warms my neck as I pull into the driveway. Nancy’s car is parked at the curb.

  Nancy Quince isn’t actually our aunt. She babysat Mom when she was little and has looked after our family ever since. She’s remembered every birthday and special occasion even after we left California and moved to Utah. She moved from California to Texas just after we did. She’s kind of our guardian angel.

  I shut off the ignition and sit in the silent garage. Moist Dallas heat rushes in to fill the void left by escaping air conditioning. It holds me back against the seat, drawing beads of sweat out on my upper lip, plastering wisps of wilted hair to my neck. I hate it but I make myself sit still. I deserve to be uncomfortable. I’ve been so much more than careless. Now Nancy will know I can’t handle things. She’ll know I’m unraveling.

  With antiseptic wipes from the new first-aid kit I scrub away the blood and pus. It hurts like fresh hell, but this time instead of tensing against the grating sting I detach, observing like it’s someone else’s mutilated limb I’m poking and prodding, someone I don’t know. And I, a curious surgeon, am only clinically interested in the macabre.

  Once the blood is gone I peer closer, examining the edges of the strange, angular symbols, pulling apart the lips of the largest gash. They’re cleanly cut and deeper than I expected. Gabe was right…the precision of these engravings would have taken a steady, unhurried hand. The symbols are uniform in spacing, height, and depth, beginning just beneath the dip of the deltoid and wrapping around the soft-pale underside in the path of a wide cuff. (But how, Doctor? How could these wounds be self-inflicted? How could she have even reached that far around?).

  I blink against a bead of sweat, too late. The salty sting blurs my vision, the detachment shatters and I’m defenseless. Vicious vipers of pain strike the wounds again and again with needle sharp fangs. ShitShitShit.

  Enough, young lady!

  I spread Neosporin on extra thick and apply three of the biggest Band-Aids—no messing with gauze and tape anymore. Hands full of bloody trash, I slam the car door shut with my hip, cram the used wipes and ruined cover-up to the bottom of our city waste bin, then grab the groceries from the trunk and head inside, bracing myself for Nancy’s reaction.

  “I’m home,” I yell, hanging the keys on the hook and washing my hands before unloading the rotisserie chicken, microwave mashed potatoes, and grapefruit onto the counter. The kitchen is too cool after the heat of the garage and I shiver, uncomfortably exposed in my bathing suit and cut-off jeans without my cover-up.

  “Finally!” Claire’s shout comes from the family room. The boys’ feet pound down the stairs. Jacob and Aidan arrive in the kitchen the same time as Claire and Nancy.

  “Mmmm. Smells good,” Claire says. “I get the drumsticks!”

  “What took so long?” Aidan asks, getting right up in my space. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “Sorry. The ringer was off.” I keep my voice light, resisting the urge to pull him even closer; afraid my anxiety will infect him via osmosis. I reach for plastic plates from the cupboard instead. “I stopped at the pharmacy to ask about my arm. I would have come straight home if I’d known you were here,” I apologize to Nancy over my shoulder.

  More lies.

  “Not to worry, Dear,” Aunt Nancy replies. “What did the pharmacist say?”

  “He put some cream on it.” Finally I turn to look at her, my eyes swimming with guilt. I know I can’t hide the truth from her for long, but I’ll do almost anything not to confess in front of the kids. “He said it was probably a heat rash, nothing to worry about. It’s much better now.” Nancy’s nod is slow and assessing.

  It’s okay, Emma. Aunt Nancy knows about Magic. She’ll understand.

  “A heat rash? Are you serious?” Jacob is incredulous. “Aidan, back me up. You were slathered in blood…”

  “Never mind, Jacob,” Nancy interrupts. “You boys wash up for dinner.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Aidan and Jacob mumble, heading for the bathroom.

  “Emily, Dear, I have a batch of r
aspberry-apricot jam in my car. Would you come out and carry it in for me, please?”

  “Bug, I’m fine, I promise,” I say to Claire’s big-eyed, questioning stare. “Get napkins and silverware for everyone.” I tug on her damp braid. “I’ll be right back.”

  When the front door closes behind us I peel back the Band-Aids.

  Nancy inhales sharply. “Oh, Emily.”

  I shove the tears and shame rising in my throat downdowndown.

  “I recognize these, of course.”

  What? There’s a sudden sucking beneath my feet, as if the ground is sliding out from under me.

  Nancy looks steadily into my eyes for a long moment before gently smoothing the bandages back into place. “They’re from that box, aren’t they? That beautiful Celtic box your father brought back from his trip to Germany years ago.”

  The box.

  “I wish you’d called me before you did this, Emily. These scars will be permanent.” Her voice is pained and I hate myself for being the cause of her hurt. “Is this about your father, Dear? Because he’ll be coming home soon?”

  I have no voice. It’s like a wave has picked me up and slammed me down against an ocean floor of broken seashells. I can’t get my bearings. I don’t know which way is up.

  “You must be a nervous wreck. I know I would be after not seeing my father for so long. I talked to your mother. She seems to be a little stronger today. I think she’s hoping your family will have a second chance, Emily. You’ll feel better when he gets here, you’ll see.”

  I nod but say nothing. I still can’t find my voice.

  “I need you to promise me you won’t do this again, Dear. It would upset your mother if she were to see, and you must be strong for your brothers and sister.” She takes a pen from her purse and draws an ink circle around the bandages. “Wash it morning and night with soap and water and then cover it with antibiotic cream. Sleep without the Band-Aids to let it breathe. If the rash moves outside this circle it means the infection is spreading and you’ll need to call me, alright?”

  “Alright,” I manage. “Thank you. I’m sorry you had to come all the way back here again.”

  “Nonsense. I love seeing you children. I know things haven’t been easy for you, especially these last few months. You’ve been remarkably capable, taking care of your brothers and sister. You are strong and brave, Emily. All of you are. The four of you are stronger together. Don’t hesitate to call me anytime night or day. Steve and I would be happy to come stay with you for a few nights if you need us to. Now, let’s see that smile I’ve been missing.”