Where rebels hide a slav.., p.8
Where Rebels Hide: A Slave Series Prequel, page 8
Acknowledgements
I’m eternally grateful to walk in the light. Where darkness and fear consume, I can stand sure in hope, knowing I am not alone facing the wickedness of this world. I pray that same peace for you.
The first earthly acknowledgement must go to the incredible readers in China, that dynamic grouping of expats who chewed on the details of Slave (Book One) and greeted me with deliciously challenging questions when I visited in May. I was entirely unsatisfied with the answers I attempted to give you in the excitement of the moment, and I hope this comes somewhat closer to a better go at it. This was a joy to write, and I have you to thank for the inspiration. Fēi cháng gǎn xiè nǐ!
Thank you to Michelle Isenhoff who so graciously reads my work and sends me the most incredible feedback. I’m honored by the time you take. (And to those reading these words…find her books, such as the Recompense Series, and devour them.)
Thank you, Mom and Dad, as always, for believing in me.
Thank you, Lila Verbeten for being a sounding board as I worked out plot issues.
Thank you, husband and children, for your patience and understanding.
Thank you to teachers who see talent and point it out. It makes a world of difference. And thank you to Ms. Ingham, that first grade teacher I’ve vowed to thank in every acknowledgement I’ll ever write. You really left a mark.
And thank you to my readers. You make me want to be better and braver.
Always,
Laura Frances
READ THE COMPLETE SERIES
Slave (Book One)
Hero (Book Two)
Remnant (Book Three)
Continue for an excerpt
from Slave (Book One)
Slave (Book One)
By Laura Frances
There’s a dripping sound echoing in this darkness. It might be the leaky pipe beneath the sink. Maybe the shower wasn’t turned off completely, and water is falling from the sawed-off pipe sticking out of the wall. Whatever it is, the sound is keeping me awake.
I sit on my cot, my back pressed to the cement wall. Cold seeps through the fabric of my shirt. Staring into the dark of my unit, I can barely make out the lines and edges of the corner shower, the toilet and sink, the cabinet holding my rations of food. Each meaningless object holds a memory more meaningful than anything I might have. Each square inch of this space is an inch my father walked on—is a place my mother lived.
I pull my knees to my chest. These are the moments that I can no longer pretend to have a family. When I’m at work, I can imagine they will be here when I get home. I can tell myself that my mother will be singing me to sleep in a few hours; that my father will stroke my hair and tell me about the sky. I can tell myself these things, and they will keep me sane in the hours when the Watchers are flexing their fingers over rifles. But when I am alone in my unit, I can no longer pretend. I bite my mouth, refusing the tears that are pooling in my eyes. One slips, and I swipe it fast, pressing my lips in a firm line and glaring. I don’t want to cry. I cry too often, and I hate the feeling of hopelessness it brings, eating away at all the stored-up dreams that I try not to look at. I’m foolish for keeping them. This is no place for dreaming. But my father was a dreamer, and it’s a part of me I can’t shake.
I hear the trees are so tall they bend in the wind. My father, mother, and I were sitting on the cracked tile floor in the heat of summer. Thick night air blew through the open window. I was five.
And, father continued, his dark hair wet with sweat, clinging to his forehead, I hear the rain is so clean, you can catch it in your mouth and drink it. He leaned his head back, mouth open, tongue out. I giggled.
Mother laughed, her small hand touching my father’s arm. I watched them—the way their eyes connected; the way their lips lifted, and silent words passed between them. Several seconds passed this way, then Father looked to me. He pulled me onto his lap, brushed moist hair from my face, and said, One day, Hannah. You’ll see. We’ll all see. Together.
My chest tightens and my nose burns. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets until my eyeballs ache.
Closing my eyes is a mistake. Images flash in my memory: my mother being dragged from her bed, her heels digging into the floor, her body rigid with panic. She was trying to fight them, but I knew she couldn’t. This is the reason they had come. When the physician diagnosed my mother with a sick heart, her fate was sealed. My father lunged at the Watchers, but only earned a backhand so hard his head whipped to the side. He too was dragged from our unit, his wide-open eyes on me until the door slammed. I huddled on the broken tile of the corner shower and pressed my hands over my ears, tears pouring down my eight-year-old cheeks. But my hands couldn’t keep out the popping sounds, and my body jerked in response to them. Moments later, one of the Watchers reentered our unit and ripped aside the curtain. Our eyes locked, and for a long moment we stared at one another. My eyes shifted to the gun strapped to his leg, and I wondered if he was the one who did it—the one who ended my family. I remember that he stared at me, and that for a split second I thought he pitied me. Then the gaze was broken, and he walked around the room, gathering my parents’ things. He bagged their clothes and toothbrushes and blankets. He folded their cots and shoved their pillows under his arm. Another Watcher entered and helped remove all the things no longer needed for one person.
One person doesn’t need three cots.
One person doesn’t need three blankets—though many times I’ve wished for them when I’ve shivered in the middle of the night.
I fling my eyes open. My chest heaves. I wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my hand and huff, hauling my body from the cot and sliding my tender feet across the cold floor to the one window in my unit. Cobwebs sway in corners. They hand from the ceiling, dangling threads of filth. I never have the energy to clear them, so they have become my only decorations. Once in a while, their creators come out to gaze at the weary woman who spends most nights swallowing tears.
Pulling back the tattered curtain, I lean close to the glass. I have to be careful not to touch it. If I push too hard or close the door with too much force, it could shatter and fall eight floors to the concrete below. I’ve seen it happen before.
Angling my head and bending slightly at the knees, I peer upward toward the sky, where a single circle of light moves slowly, illuminating patches of gray. I wish my father had never told me that the sky is blue. An ache grows in my chest, and I rub at it.
What kind of blue? I would ask him. Like my eyes?
I’d never seen my own eyes, but my mother’s were blue. They were dark—like a puddle beneath a shadow. My father said his girls had matching eyes, so I knew mine were the same.
At night, perhaps, he would reply. But in the day, I hear it’s so bright you have to shield your eyes. His face lit with wonder.
I wish he’d never told me.
I turn my thoughts to the Watchers. I want to think of them as humans—to remember that they have mothers and fathers and maybe children. But doing that would mean ignoring too many sins that can never be undone. And why should I care that they have families, when they have stolen mine? Norma, my elderly neighbor, scolds me for hating them. But she has always been that way. She has suffered for more years than I have, but she never lets her heart sour. I think it is too late for me.
I reach to the right, where a small table stands, holding a lamp. I pull the chain, and dim, yellow light floods the room. Turning to the window again, I see the clouded reflection of my form, too shadowed to make out. It was a defiant decision—turning on the lamp. Because now, if there are Watchers below, which there always are, they can see me. I stand with my hand holding aside the curtain and stare into the glass. My heart slams against my ribcage. I am foolish for taunting them. They could still kill me from eight floors up.
I swallow hard, and my legs twitch, my muscles aching to run back into the shadows. In a swift movement, I drop the curtain, turn off the lamp, and slide to my cot.
I wait in the empty darkness for the black fatigues and the glint of the rifle.
But no one comes.
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Thank you!
Laura Frances, Where Rebels Hide: A Slave Series Prequel
