Akasha, The Complete Saga

By Terra Harmony

This is the boxed set of all four books in The Akasha Series; Water, Air, Fire and Earth.

Water: Elemental powers in the palm of her hand...
...and it won't be enough to save her. When Kaitlyn Alder is involuntarily introduced to a life of magic, she becomes part of an organization hell-bent on saving the Earth. Just as her newfound life holds promises of purpose, romance, and friendship, the organization divides and a rogue member holds Kaitlyn hostage. Now one of the most terrifying men the human race has to offer stands between her and Earth's survival.

Air: She carries more than elemental powers.
In ‘Air’, the sequel to ‘Water’ of the Akasha Series, Kaitlyn has a secret. One she won’t be able to hide much longer. As the strongest Gaia the planet has ever seen, she must face mankind’s greatest enemy as he campaigns for ‘One Less: Depopulation’. Everything depends on Kaitlyn fully embracing her role as Gaia. Her family. The Seven. The Earth. Something has to give, and it won’t be Kaitlyn.

Fire: Elemental magic is a weapon of power, on both sides of the war. The Seven has another leader, Kaitlyn is a new mother, and everyone is busy building their armies. During one battle, the secret to Akasha is discovered, and the race to master it is on. With all eyes on the prize, what matters most gets left behind. It is up to Kaitlyn to preserve the planet in the wake of the pure destructive power of Akasha, and the humans who wield it.

Earth: After an elemental apocalypse, the fate of Earth hangs in the balance. The hunt for Micah in a world that has gone dim leads Kaitlyn straight to Shawn and One Less. While struggling to survive, she battles a side of her that is as dark as the rest of the planet. In the exciting conclusion to The Akasha Series, our heroine is no longer a part of The Seven or One Less. Now she is on Team Kaitlyn; who will join her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terra Harmony
• Release date: Apr 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301987283

Terra Harmony

Terra is author of the eco-fantasy novels in the Akasha Series, 'Water', 'Air', 'Fire' and 'Earth', as well as the Painted Maidens Trilogy. Terra was born and raised in Colorado but has since lived in California, Texas, Utah, North Carolina, and Virginia. Terra served a 51⁄2 year enlistment in the Marine Corp, has earned her bachelor's and master's degree and presently runs the language services division of a small business.Terra currently lives in a suburb of Washington, DC with her husband of sixteen years and three children.

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Water, Chapter 1

Closed Casket

There is nothing like an avalanche to put your life into perspective. I leaned forward; the board strapped to my boots responded. Slicing through the fresh powder, I made a sharp curve to the right. A quick glance uphill revealed a wave of snow five times my height, and it was about to catch up to me.

The avalanche roared like an angry dragon, breath stinking of the earth churned up in its path. The entire right side of the unmarked backcountry trail was a thick wall of trees, impossible to break through. I pulled my toes up, arching back to the left side of the trail. But I wasn't going to make it. Ice pelted me on the back of my neck, sending chills down my spine. I pointed my snowboard straight downhill and put all my weight on my forward leg, hoping to outrun the beast.

I willed my board to go faster than I ever dared before. The avalanche was faster. It opened its mouth wide, closing in on me from both sides and overhead. Gray blacked out the blue sky above and the trees to the side of me. The mountain slope cracked and slithered forward, like a monster's forked tongue. As the force of nature dropped over me, I closed my eyes and threw my arms around my head. My screams were swallowed by the creature.

Completely engulfed, I moved with the avalanche. The whole of the trail had transformed into its body; an agitated, unstoppable river of churning snow and debris. The world became darker and darker, the snow heavier and heavier. Flashes of light were few and far between.

When I gasped for air I was sometimes rewarded with a clear breath but more often than not I sucked in a mouthful of snow. Hacking to rid my throat of the slush, I came to the awful realization that I was drowning on dry land.

My hands, flailing for something solid to hang onto, finally caught hold of a tree. Small as it was, it held fast against the merciless rush of snow. I fought against nature, literally holding on for my life. I wrapped myself around the trunk as two large branches just above me ripped away and disappeared in the churning white waves, along with my screams. I squeezed so tight the rough bark scratched my cheek. I inhaled the heavy scent of pine, as though the smell alone would keep me tethered to the tree. I willed the roots to be strong.

They were, but I was not. My grip started to loosen as my tired muscles and numb fingers were unable to hold on any longer. I lost the stable trunk and returned to the tumble of snow.

I came to a halt just like the rest of the debris that used to be the Canadian mountainside. A small air pocket had formed, allowing me to spit out the coppery taste of blood. Suffocation couldn’t be too far off, encased as I was in an immobile block of ice. Feeble attempts at movement proved useless. Silence settled in on me as I heard the last of the snow come to a halt above me. I tolerated its crushing weight because I had no choice.

As the numbness slowly receded, pain returned to one hand. I wiggled my fingers. They were free, possibly above the surface. I grimaced. Great – something for the wolves to gnaw on. Closed casket for me.

Water, Chapter 2

Where in the World

I sat up, gasping for breath. My lungs tried to hack up snow that wasn't there. The clear breath didn't stop me from hyperventilating. I was still buried. Flailing all four limbs, I clawed my way out from the white. Waves of pain starting in my head shot down to my arms and legs, threatening to engulf me. Sharp, painful jolts coursed through my body.

Sunlight hit me, bright and intense. I covered my eyes and my hand brought up a cotton sheet with it. I looked around in confusion. Soft, cream-colored pillows and blankets surrounded me; a large comforter was halfway on the floor.

I should be dead. What happened? Snowboarding, avalanche, free hand, a pull on my hand, blue sky…

It took a moment to settle in. The razor sharp teeth and vice-like jaws of wolves I had been expecting never came. Instead there was a firm but gentle pull from a warm hand. Somebody saved me! But who? How? In my usual inability to plan I had told no one of my trip.

Trying to recall the events further only managed to evoke foggy snatches of conversation. There were men talking about my injuries. A broken wrist, sprained ankle, bruised ribs. Other bits of medical terminology toyed with me.

Slowly turning my sore neck, I surveyed the room. It was bare, save for the bed and the porcelain sink in the corner. The only window was small, placed high up on one wall, flooding the room in brilliant rays of afternoon sun.

It didn't smell like a hospital. The air was fresh, almost tropical. The familiar boops and beeps of machines were absent; there was no low hum of conversations from nurses and doctors in the hallway. I knew those sounds well thanks to my unnatural knack for getting caught in the middle of disasters. This wasn’t a hospital.

I shifted, and pain shot up my arm. If my wrist was broken, they hadn’t bothered to cast it, or even brace it. Cradling it with the other arm would do for now.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed and forced myself to stand, slowly. Wavering, I caught myself on the wall, and waited for my legs to steady themselves before hobbling to the sink.

Cold, metallic-tasting water poured from the faucet. I drank, soothing my dry throat. The pain in my ribs, multiplied by the simple task of breathing seemed to lessen. Still, the bruised mass that was my body protested every small movement. Given that I had already marked myself for death on the mountainside, the pain was more welcome than not.

I slowly made my way across the room and tried the door handle. Locked. I turned around and fought back the inclination to panic. I could hardly recall a time in my life I had felt imprisoned. As a child I was happy to stay close to mom and dad, and whatever home we had at the time. Having very few personal relations and a flexible job as an adult, I was free to do what I wanted, when I wanted so long as the balance in my bank account held steady.

Suddenly, that freedom was no longer mine.

A thick lump began to form in my throat. Quickly, I recalled my mother’s meditation sessions. No peeking, honey. Keep your eyes closed and your mind clear. I imagined the smell of her sage, and after several deep breaths and a few moments of Zen, my nerves were calmed. Satisfied I could think straight, I concentrated on my surroundings. The only window was out of my reach but placed directly above the sink. Amidst unsuccessful attempts to coddle my various breaks, bumps, and bruises, I limped back toward the sink. Waddling too close to the end of the bed, a clipboard clattered to the floor.

I picked it up, my ribs groaning in protest, and quickly scanned the pages of handwritten notes hastily scrawled across them. Female subject #134, experimental phase. Survived initial encounter. Begin injection treatment; run blood tests.

I let the clipboard fall back to the floor. My veins grew hot with adrenaline. I ran to the far wall. One painful hoist later, I was face to pane with the window. A single sheet of glass separated me from being able to return to my own life. Lonely though it was, my apartment was my sanctuary. As soon as I got back I would run a hot bath and soak away the cold and pain of the avalanche. I would concentrate on my job, find comfort in the familiarity of a photo shoot, and never, ever again take another vacation.

I placed my open palm on the glass. Warm, like the window in the backseat of our car when we dropped Dad off at work. Have a good day, Katie. Be good for your mom. He put his hand against the other side of the window in a final farewell. There was no hand on the other side of the glass now.

I tapped on the windowpane and the sound echoed around the empty room. It seemed sturdier than ideal. I'd never broken a window. I tested different stances and slow-motion strikes with my elbows and fists, debating what would be most effective on the wobbly basin. Deciding on a simple strike, I shifted so my back leg rested just inside the front of the sink. Common sense prevailed and I took off my shirt to wrap it around my knuckles. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and imagined myself punching through the glass.

I reared my hand back and then toward the windowpane. My fist bounced back. I lost balance. My forward foot, anchored underneath one of the handles, did me no good. I fell backward off the sink, bringing the handle with me. The hard landing sent more jolts of pain through me. Though on the verge of shock, my body made a quick recovery aided by the cold. I lay directly in the path of water erupting from a now broken pipe.

Shocked out of shock; that was a first, even for me. I lay in a topless, sopping sprawl on the floor, staring up at the still completely intact window. I cursed at it. The only thing I managed to accomplish was that I could now add throbbing knuckles, an aching tailbone, and a bruised ego to my list of various injuries. Now more determined than before, I climbed back up armed with the broken handle from the sink. The window was no match against my new tool, and I let out a small cry of triumph as it shattered.

Woe be to those that try to stop me! I do not play victim. I am not familiar with that role.

Five days after my parent’s funeral I had moved two states away, found work as an assistant to a local photographer, cajoled him into issuing me an advance, and was furniture shopping for my new apartment. I don’t do grief or self-pity.

The window was level to the ground outside and I was back to survey mode before I moved further. I was right about the tropical atmosphere. The heavily scented and thick leafy bushes in front of me told me as much. They were covered in rich, burgundy star-shaped blossoms with white ruffled edges. The sheer intensity of it gave me pause. What else would I encounter outside of the shelter of my cream-colored room? Two beetles with long horns protruding from their heads fought each other on a leaf of the bush. Caught up in their own struggle, they were oblivious to my predicament.

Enough Kaitlyn, get a move on.

I pulled myself through, grabbing the shrubs as leverage.  Freedom achieved, I belatedly realized I was bare from the waist up. I looked back at the room, debated for a moment, then finally re-entered through the obstacle of broken glass. A few cuts and several curse words later I was outside once again, fully clothed. The beetles disappeared into the depth of the bush, both living to fight another day.

Pressing into the shrubs against the wall for cover, I tried to orient myself, wondering where in the world I was. I was definitely a long way from Canada. A few yards of lush, dark green grass extended out from the bushes and then stopped at the wall of trees. The highest tree must have been at least a hundred feet tall. Broad, straight trunks supported a thick canopy of light green. The chaotic buzzing of insects and other wildlife filtered down from the top. Humidity weighed down the tropical breeze, but not enough to dampen a sweet fragrance in the air. I breathed it in, frowning at the smell that didn’t quite seem to be a spice, but something more of a tangy zest. I tried to place it. It was an odd cross between a southeastern Chinese beach and the orange groves I once photographed near Riverside, California. I’d moved around more often than a military brat as a child, and had a job that put me in sixteen different countries by the time I was twenty-five. Fat lot of good that did me; I still couldn’t place where I was now.

I looked at the building behind me. It was maybe three stories high, plus the basement, and long.  Voices interrupted my examination. My head snapped toward them as I sucked in my stomach…as if that were going to hide me any better.

Which room? one very annoyed male asked.

Another man responded, The white room. It was the only one ready.

What? It wasn’t meant for keeping someone in, damn it!

Were any of the rooms?

Voices of the arguing pair continued forward, diminishing with distance. I moved as quickly as my hurt ankle allowed, keeping to the space between the shrubs and the building. I risked a peek out to catch a glimpse of who I might be up against.  The men were not wearing uniforms but had all the bells and whistles security guards might have – radios, handcuffs, mace, and guns. A new rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins.

I emerged from my hiding place and began to sprint. My footing was awkward at first but straightened out as I discovered how high my tolerance for pain really was. I navigated the building, hoping the grounds were not as expansive on the other side.  Breathing heavy by the time I rounded the corner, I slowed down to turn. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going slowly enough to avoid a head-on collision with another guard.

We both bounced back. Our feet did not follow the change of direction so well and we each landed on the ground. I jumped up while he stayed down, hugging his chest, right where my knee made contact.  I resumed my sprint.

His wheezing voice carried after me, the walkie-talkie clicking. She’s…in the … north yard.

I ran straight across the lawn, the mammoth property had to end eventually.  Soon groves of shorter, flowering trees began to fill the yard, becoming thicker as I progressed.  Just as I turned into them for better cover, several more men emerged, surrounding me.

I willed my body to stop. Panting, I looked between them, You grow on trees around here?

No one answered. Five big men stood around me, each waiting to see who would make the first move.

Water, Chapter 3

Hey, Yourself

Sideways glances pointed to the one in charge. They seemed to be waiting for his consent. One of them spoke up, How do you want to proceed, Shawn?

He looked at me, narrowing his eyes. Detainment – by any means necessary.

Lovely.

He gave a slight nod, and two men stepped toward me, one on each side.  I sized them up. They were the smallest, but one was sporting a very ominous syringe.  The arrogant prick didn’t even try to hide it.

Facing my opponents, I pulled my shoulders back. There was no hesitation even as I considered the odds.  Despite all I had been through, despite the pain in my leg and wrist that was threatening to come back, I felt stronger, quicker, and clear-headed. I brushed it off as an adrenaline rush.  It felt great. So great, in fact, that I didn’t have the patience to sit back and play defense.

Taking the initiative, I turned to face the man with the syringe, fully aware the other one was coming up behind me.  My hand shot out to grab his wrist and I twisted until his grip on the syringe loosened.  Not having to look, I leaned to one side in order to avoid a blow the man behind me intended for my head.  It was as if they were moving in slow motion – how generous of them. As luck would have it, his fist went straight through, making contact with the other assailant’s nose.  A sickening crunch followed, and his blood splattered my face.

While both of them were busy looking stunned and trying to comprehend what had just happened, the other guards moved forward. I grabbed the syringe and emptied half of it into the thigh of the guard behind me.  He staggered back a few steps and looked at me like I just killed his cat; his face contorting in shock and anger.  The other guards seemed to be hesitating, moving toward me, stopping, looking at Shawn, and moving again. Before they could decide what to do, I turned to the one bent over, nursing his broken nose, and emptied the rest of the syringe into the most easily accessible part of him, his butt.  Just like a bad action movie, they both fell over at the same time.

I was still panting, half from the fight, half from the run, but I made an effort to stand tall.  The three other men just stood there, not bothering to hide their expressions of shock. Apparently I had just proven myself a worthy opponent.  

Shawn recovered first, masking his expression. Kaitlyn Alder - drop the syringe. Hearing my own name made me hesitate. They knew me. I had no idea if that was good or bad. He saw me waver with uncertainty and tried to strengthen his case. It is empty anyway.

Never one to listen to reason, I shook my head, Can't give up my only weapon. I spun the syringe in my hand once, for effect.

Shawn's eyes widened only slightly, You don't need a weapon.

I would if my life depended on it.  And right now I’m getting the feeling my life depends on it, I said, gesturing to the two unconscious men on the ground.

Shawn sauntered toward me and I got my first good look at him. He was a foot taller than me with sandy-blonde hair, tousled by the run. A smooth face, with clean lines – perfect boy-band material. His attractive qualities were betrayed only by two cold blue eyes, which gave away too much. His half-smile did not touch them. They were malicious – as if they had seen pain he was only too eager to return. Whether I was the appropriate target or not mattered little to him.

He kicked one of the men on the ground. The man stirred, jerking slightly before becoming still again. See?  We weren’t trying to kill you, just put you back to sleep.

Pass. I held his gaze but my fingers twitched at my side.

His condescending look all but told me what a silly girl I was. Unfortunately, you don’t have much say in the matter.

Two down says I do.

You don’t have any more serum, Shawn said.

Still, I depressed the syringe until it was fully extended. It can poke an eye out.

He smiled his malicious little half smile again, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a knife. Not as well as this.

Shit.  I silently cursed myself for letting sarcasm escalate the situation. It was a poor self-defense mechanism. I hadn’t even considered the consequences.

The fact that I knew I was at a distinct disadvantage must have been evident on my face. He puffed up his shoulders and chest. You should have taken the needle, it would have hurt less.

En garde.  Before my mouth finished uttering such a cheesy line, I had already shrugged it off. No one ever accused me of being quick-witted.

Shawn closed the remaining distance between us. The other men backed off, giving him his space.  As soon as he was close enough, he thrust out the knife, aiming for my chest.

So much for not killing me.

I leaned sideways, leaving my hip in front of him. Grabbing him at the wrist and bicep, I used his own momentum to flip him over my hip. He landed hard on his back.  I paused, stunned at my newly discovered talent of fighting. Keeping a tight hold on his wrist, I twisted his arm giving his body no choice but to follow. He was forced to lay face down on the ground.  I gave his wrist another sharp twist and the knife fell out of his hand.

Bitch! he screamed. You will bear my mark before this is over.  

I bit my lip to keep myself from laughed out loud.

Instead, I grabbed the knife and made three quick cuts on his back. Blood seeped through his shirt in the shape of the letter K. Not one to be outdone with tacky declarations, I announced, But not before you bear mine.  I stepped back, releasing my grip on him, feeling entirely too pleased with myself.

It was short lived; four hands grabbed me.  I had forgotten about the remaining two guards, significantly bigger men, who now had me sandwiched between them, keeping me all but immobile.

Shawn took his time getting up from the ground, dusting himself off before turning to face me.  His eyes bore into me, burning with pure hatred.  He twisted my wrist, the same maneuver I used on him, confiscating the knife. My eyes followed its tip as he ran it past my face.  I squirmed and the guards’ hold tightened.  Pleased he had my undivided attention, he replaced the knife in his pocket and reared his hand back for the punishing blow. The sense of movements coming in slow motion worked against me. The split second before he closed in on my cheek with his fist lasted far too long.

I winced, bracing myself for the inevitable strike.  It never came. Instead, I heard a loud slap. Cautiously opening one eye and then the other, I only saw Shawn's knuckles, tightened with rage and mere inches from my face. I looked past the fist, finding a newcomer gripping Shawn's wrist.

I would have liked to call it a Mexican standoff but that implies each person has some sort of advantage; I did not. Restrained beyond any hope of action, I studied the latest addition to the group. He was average height and weight, with darker hair and a slight muscular build. His eyebrows were thick and flat; expressionless. There was enough stubble on his chin and cheeks to tell me he hadn't held a razor that morning, and probably not even the morning before. Still, there was something appealing about him. I chalked it up as nothing more than gratitude for sparing me a potential broken jaw.

The two men, their hands still locked together, stared each other down.  It was a silent conversation, but one could follow the gist by telltale gestures; a raised eyebrow, a twitch at the corner of a mouth, a hardened stare, lowered lids.  Finally, a blink, and Shawn withdrew his fist. Suppressed coughs and clearing throats, the kind of noises that usually followed an awkward moment, drew me from my trance.  More guards had joined the group.

The newcomer turned to face the two men holding me. Let her go.

The guards obeyed but didn’t step away.

She won’t run again. His reassurance was directed toward the guards, but he looked at me. He was right. I wouldn’t. Not until I had a better plan, at least. I let my eyes meet his. They were striking; pools of green that caused me to take a sharp breath in. I forced my gaze away and shook my head as if to clear it. There were more suppressed coughs and a few shuffling feet around us. He was still looking at me, expecting some kind of, I don't know, introduction maybe?

I raised my hand in a half-wave. Eyes downcast, I said, Hey. I wasn’t about to thank him, and they apparently already knew my name.

Hey, yourself. A connection, however small, was established through our shared inability to converse. It was enough to ease some of the tension. Ignoring the anxious looks of the rest of the guards, he took the time to give me more information than anyone else cared to, I am Micah.

He waited long enough for Shawn to leave the pack and disappear into the building. I would have been grateful except that Micah apparently intended for me to go in the same direction. He motioned for me to follow. I hesitated but had little choice. I walked, with the circle of guards stepping forward as I did. The careful coordination of their pace to mine was too much to resist and I stopped mid-stride to take a sudden step backwards. Some of them froze in place, some stepped back and some having not seen me at all kept going. It was a fine mess and resulted in several collisions. They had a long way to go before they could hit the big time.

My laughter was cut short by Micah’s chiding, raised eyebrow, but as we walked a quick glance up revealed his poorly hidden smile.

Water, Chapter 4

Needed

After escorting me back to the building I had fought so hard to leave, Micah relinquished control of my arm to the guards, who weren’t nearly as gentle. Gripping hard enough to cause bruising, they half-dragged me to a basement room resembling a lab with pristine, white floors and walls, hard fluorescent lighting, and pungent smells strong enough to give me an instant headache. Long tables containing microscopes, computers, and beakers with various colored liquids filled the room. One chair stood alone in the center. They shackled my arms and legs to it. Before I could even test the sturdiness of my bonds, the guards shuffled out and a large team of medics sporting long white coats moved in, taking their various stations in the lab. It was so well choreographed that I half expected them to break into a show tune on cue.

Truthfully, a Broadway performance would have been preferable. Without a word, they began typing away on computers, mixing mysterious concoctions, and they were all very effectively ignoring me.

Who are you? No response, not even from the women, whom I'd thought might have some compassion.

Where am I? Someone dropped a beaker. There was a lot of commotion to get it cleaned up but no one clamored to answer my questions.

One of the medics walked toward me with a long, ominous syringe. What is that? Don’t put that in – OW! I flexed my leg muscles, trying to work out the pain left behind on the inside of my thigh. You could have at least bought me dinner first! Again, ignored. Several more walked toward me armed with more syringes, vials, and spotless, shiny metal instruments. The only interest they had in me was which vein produced the most blood for extraction or where they could stick the next injection, none of which let me fall into a deep blissful sleep. The hours began to blend together until I was unsure if it was day or night.

When they finally did start speaking to me, it was a barrage of personal questions. Normally I would have been tight-lipped but any acknowledgement of my existence was music to my ears. Of course the sleep deprivation and possible drugs coursing through my system may have made the interrogations all the more dream-like.

"No. I don’t hate your pants." A Cyclops loomed over me, drilling me about his wardrobe. A bucket of cold water sloshed over me.

I squinted my eyes and focused; the face at least had two eyes now.

"No, no. I asked if you can remember your Great Aunt’s middle name. He threw his arms in the air. This is pointless, she is too wasted. He stormed back to his workstation. Collins! How many cc’s did you give her?"

My answers wouldn’t have been any more help with a clear head. I knew very little about my lineage. My family tree was no giant sequoia; it was more like a squash. The Alder roots didn’t go very deep, so far as I knew.

After more unsuccessful interrogations, they began to apply an earthy-smelling concoction to my wrist, ankle, ribs and the various bumps and bruises that covered my body. It didn’t take long to realize how quickly I recovered from my injuries. Most of my bruises were already yellow and on the verge of disappearing altogether. Johnson and Johnson would have paid a fortune for that stuff.

The medics untied my straps a few times to allow me to use a bathroom connected to the lab. I was afforded no privacy. The need to pee left me indifferent. I came back from one such trip to find a garbage bag of old clothes in my chair.

So, what. I’m staying? A medic dumped the clothes out on the floor and walked away without responding.

Shrugging, I began to sort through the clothes. I picked up a shirt with armpit stains and wrinkled my nose in disgust, These smell. I realized I was still wearing the black, cotton lycra pants and matching race-back sports bra from the avalanche, which were now torn and admittedly smelled worse than anything from the bag. I managed to come up with shorts and a t-shirt two sizes too big, but at least they didn’t have any stains. There were several items singed with burn marks.

I changed into the new clothes in the middle of the room, which earned a few fleeting looks. Those that I caught peeking went quickly back to their work after one nervous glance up in the corner of the room. I followed their gaze and saw, for the first time, a small video camera rotating slowly back and forth. Well, that is new.

A loud buzzer echoing through the room caused me to jump to my feet. One of the medics walked over to open the door. Temporary hopes of a possible escape opportunity were quickly dashed as Micah entered the room and locked the door behind him. I didn't want to test this one quite yet; not until I felt stronger and a little less druggy. He didn’t acknowledge me but I kept my eyes glued on him as he walked around the room, consulting with the medical team and reading over their notes, lab results, ordering more tests, blah, blah, blah.

Finding him to be no immediate threat, I looked away and instead searched for a small weapon I could hide on me while everyone seemed to be distracted.

I wouldn’t do that. Micah’s voice, soft as it was, startled me. He was standing not two feet away.

I jumped and recovered too slowly, Do what?

He looked at me with his hand on his hip, as if debating whether or not to elaborate. Never mind. Here.

He placed a paper plate with one small sandwich on the floor in between us. I didn’t hesitate; I was starving and had he been any closer I would have shoved him back to get to the food. The meat was too thin and dry, but it tasted like heaven. He watched as I gulped down the sandwich in three bites, then inspected the plate for crumbs. Finished, I realized what I must have looked like, kneeling at his feet practically begging for nourishment in any form. I wasn’t going to give him or anyone here the satisfaction. Starting now.

Wiping my mouth, I cleared my throat and stood. I walked over to the chair that kept me hostage for so long, and took a deep breath. Nothing will faze me. I sat down, crossed my legs and began toying with one of the straps that had chaffed my wrist raw. So, Micah – like the stone?

Yes, like the stone. His expression matched his name. He walked toward one wall of the lab, keeping his distance, and leaned against it. His posture was misleading. The muscles on his forearms, tense with well-defined lines gave him away. He was ready for action. But why?

We remained in silence, stealing quick glances at each other. The awkward tension only increased each time one of us was caught mid-stare.

He was rough-looking, but handsome. Passing him on the street any other day I would have pegged him as a blue-collared worker, with a couple days worth of stubble on his upper lip, cheeks and chin and short hair that seemed like it would be unkempt if only a little longer. He looked just a few years older than me, but the deep lines etched in his face could have rivaled those of my late father’s.

Our eyes continued to play hide and seek, darting in for a quick look, then out again. Neither of us turned our heads away; that would have been considered backing down, as silly as it was. Finally, we caught each other at the right moment, and once we did, it wasn’t easy to let go. His eyes were still a startling color of green. They were hypnotizing, holding me hostage more effectively than the bonds I toyed with. An Afghan refugee girl who famously graced the cover of the 1985 June issue of National Geographic had similar eyes. I kept the photograph tucked away in my camera bag and referred to it whenever I shot people, always attempting to capture the same breathtaking effect. Her eyes emanated a strength that endured the hardships of a war-torn country and would endure whatever else the world would throw her way with dignity and grace. I saw the same magic in his eyes, though there was nothing feminine about it. They exuded warmth that invited you in but were hardened enough to keep you humble during your stay. What I would have given to photograph him as a farmer hard at work in his field. Or maybe in a coal mine – his eyes would have glowed in contrast to the murky shadows of the dirty tunnels.

Of course, his involvement with my kidnapping severed any potential working relationship. His loss. I cleared my throat and attempted to negotiate my freedom, So, what is it you want from me? Money? That can be arranged…

This isn’t about money, Kaitlyn. He looked bored of the negotiations already.

My blood? They’ve already taken plenty of it.

He yawned, We didn’t bring you here to kill you.

Okay, different tactic. I would appreciate some information here. There will be people looking for me. My dog needs to be taken care of.

You have no pets; and no one will be looking for you. Micah appeared to be well engaged in cleaning his fingernails, and I was getting irritated.

I do have a life to get back to, you know.

He raised his eyebrow at me as if he knew I was fibbing.

Well, I do. I have….I have…

Yes?

I pulled my shoulders back. I have plants that need watering.

He actually laughed.

Time to up my game. My father has some very powerful connections in the FBI. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they already found me. I stood up to face him full on and raised my voice, "If you don’t let me go, right now, I will…"

Your parents are dead. The bluntness of his statement shocked me into silence. The ‘no pets’ could have been just a good guess, but not this. They knew me well.

A look of guilt flashed across his eyes , but it was gone before I could be sure. His stony expression resumed its proper place.

After several deep, calming breaths, I spoke again, Why am I here?

You are here, Kaitlyn, because you are needed.

Needed. Hearing that word come from him sent chills down my spine. It was menacing, foreboding, and exciting all at once.

Needed, how? I asked

That explanation is best left for others to give.

I let out an exasperated sigh and started pacing the room. "Well what explanations can you give me? How do you know my name? How did you find me in the middle of an avalanche? When do you plan on letting me leave?"

He didn’t address any of my questions. Your apartment has been taken care of, he said. The plants were donated to an elementary school and everything else is in storage. Final bills have been paid and your mail has been put on hold.

My, my….what? You were in my apartment? I stuttered. The skin on the back of my neck prickled. Somehow every single private aspect of my life was attended to by captors I didn’t know. The invasion was more disturbing than the fact that I was kidnapped at all. What in the hell is going on?

He studied my reaction, considered it, and moved on. I did bring you one thing from home. He reached into his cargo pocket and produced a small, very well-used notebook. Interesting stuff in here. You might want to take the time to revisit it.

He set it on a table by the door, and left the room without glancing back. The door swung shut, and three loud beeps echoed through the room. I took a few steps closer until two very distinct words in my handwriting were visible. Dream Log.

I picked up the book and turned to the door, still closed tight, You just stay out of my… I glanced at a pair of used, stained pants lying on top of the pile of clothes on the floor, …head!

Neither the door or the person on the other side responded. I huffed, then returned to my chair, hugging the book to my chest.

Water, Chapter 5

Tree Huggers

There was more blood work, followed by a jaunt on a treadmill long enough to let me know I was in decent shape. Lugging that heavy camera pack around the world apparently did my body good. Guards escorted me back to the ‘white’ room, which now came complete with a barred window, and left me alone. Without even checking to see if the door was locked behind me, I collapsed on the bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

What felt like five minutes later, I was awoken by a rough shake of my shoulder. Kaitlyn, wake up. Wake up!

I turned, eyes not opened to more than a squint, seeing Micah’s blurred face. I groaned, threw a pillow over my head and went back to convincing myself this was all a bad dream. A very long, bad dream.

He only shook me harder. Come on, you’ve been sleeping for 12 hours now.

And before that I was awake for 72, so let me sleep for another 12, I said through the pillow. "Or better yet – go kidnap someone else. I’ve got no more blood to donate to your cause. Whatever that is."

There is food, Micah said.

That did get my attention. I was starving. Reluctantly, I gave in and got out of the bed, my growling stomach leading the way.

Micah walked out of the room, motioning for me to follow. We went up a flight of stairs and into a spacious, commercial-looking kitchen. It felt weird to be walking around without guards. It felt weird to be walking around at all, instead of being tethered to a hard, straight back chair. He didn’t give me time to adjust, instead leading me to a small table with two stools and a plate with nothing more than a sandwich and sliced oranges. My stomach growled. It still looked like a feast to me. I dived in, swallowing the food in huge gulps, sputtering a bit after each bite.

The plate empty, I finally straightened.

Won’t you sit down? he asked, sarcastically cordial as I realized I hadn’t even taken the time to do that.

I slowly sank into the chair. Is there any more food?

Micah walked over to a refrigerator, almost bare of food, and pulled out the fixings for another sandwich. Mayo? Mustard?

Yes – both. The more calories I could get my hands on, the better.

I couldn’t take my eyes off his hands as he made the sandwich. Deeply tanned and wrinkled, they showed evidence of long hours outside. His knuckles were knobby and his palms calloused.

Are you okay? Micah stood over me with a new plate of food. His eyes had the usual effect. I couldn’t pull myself away, even to take the plate from him. I was still staring and miscalculated the distance. Our hands brushed. A spark jumped from his skin to mine, and the heat traveled straight to my core, warming me.

Yes. I cleared my throat and with a monumental effort, and broke our gaze. I set the plate down in front of me slowly, trying to regain my composure. After years of a stubborn resistance to people in general, the alienation caused a simple brush of hands to leave me aching for more skin to skin contact, in any form. Once, I had gone so far as to buy a dress two sizes too big, just so I could go to the old Vietnamese seamstress who owned a shop down the street and feel her hands working the seams of the dress. Paying for a massage did come to mind as a less insane option, but it didn’t have the same effect as the indifferent handling of her gentle pinches, smoothing, and firm tugging I felt through the fabric. Afterwards, I recalled with a growing sickness what I had to do for the intimate contact every human body craved. Yet, I made it an annual tradition. As my wardrobe of perfectly fitted, unused dresses grew, I was able to curb any desire for close contact with a once per year treat.

Micah would be the undoing of such careful, thought out control. I stared hard at the sandwich, willing myself not to look up at him again, lest my thoughts show on my face. A green, furry spot on the bread came into focus. I grimaced. Distraction achieved. This bread is moldy.

He shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned, The Seven doesn’t have a lot of funding. We take what we can get.

The Seven? I tore off the bad part and studied the rest for any more mold. Satisfied, I finished the sandwich in three bites.

The Seven is what we call our organization.

Before I could question him further, he removed my empty plate, replacing it with a granola bar and juice box. You can eat this on the way, there’s someone you need to meet. With that he left the kitchen and I had no choice but to follow with my snack, happy as a preschooler. I was grateful his back was to me instead of those dangerous eyes. Despite myself, I continued staring at his hands, trying to think up some small accident that might cause them to reach out to me again.

What is wrong with me?

Micah was like a drug – a very good drug. The kind that prowled the streets of Seattle, enticing young and old, weak and strong. The addiction had no preference in victims so long as they succumbed.

I shook off the thought. Yes. A very dangerous man, that one. Keep telling yourself that.

We walked down a long hallway to a double doorway at the end. Micah pushed the doors open and I paused to look at the intricate carvings in the wood. There were a number of Celtic knots looping and weaving their way around the edge of the doors, and the same strange symbol in the center of each.

Carved them myself out of reclaimed wood, Micah said. He traced the strange symbol with his finger. This is the Spiral of Life; it is drawn from a single line with no beginning or end.

Hmm. I tried to appear interested, but the last drops of grape juice were good at evading the straw.

He eventually snapped himself out of it and pushed me forward into the room.

I looked around, absorbing as much as I could. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, most of them sagging under the weight of thousands of books, shoved into every nook and cranny the room had to offer. They covered every available flat surface. Couches, tables, and desks; even the floor had piles of books I had to weave my way past. Topographical maps, oceanography maps, statistical maps, maps of the world, and maps of individual cities throughout the world were strewn over, under, and hanging out from between the books. In the few spaces still available there were globes, microscopes, and jars of what looked like different dirt and water samples. Nothing appeared to be in any sort of order.

I had taken only a few steps into the room, running my finger over a stacked series of battered, yellowing books. No dust. Much of it had been recently used. Maybe they could curb spending on books and invest in some basic staples of life – like food.

So where’s Waldo? I turned to Micah, who hadn’t moved from the door.

Micah walked forward and took the now empty juice box and granola bar wrappings from me. I heard someone clear their throat softly from the far end of the room. I glanced back at Micah, unsure. He waved me forward. At Micah’s urging, I walked toward the sound, noting the number of windows in the room as possible escape routes. Navigating my way through the mess, I often found myself at a dead end and had to turn to seek out another path, only to end up at another dead end. Forget this, I'd be caught in the maze before I could find my way to the windows.

Finally, after circling around an especially tall pile of books, I approached an elderly man sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, taking notes from one of several open books in front of him. He looked up at my approach and stood, brushing dirt off his lap. His long silver hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and might have been considered dignified if it weren’t for loose, frazzled strands floating about his grungy face. He moved slowly, like a great weight was on him, making him appear older than his face seemed to portray; wrinkles ornamented his eyes, the only flaw on otherwise firm, smooth skin. His assessment of me went twice as quickly, and he turned to Micah, still at the entrance of the door to dismiss him.

As the most familiar thing to me in this place left, I fought back the urge to protest as an odd feeling of betrayal bubbled up.

Don’t worry, I won’t bite, the old man said. His eyes, a dull blue going lucent with age, barely glanced at me, but obviously he didn’t miss a thing. My name is Cato.

His name could’ve very well been Einstein, with his scraggly white hair. I’m Kaitlyn, I replied, not knowing what else to say.

I know, he said, winking at me before moving books off a couple of worn, beaten chairs. Please, have a seat; I’m sure you have many questions.

Yeah, sure, lots. Like, ever heard of a computer? Appropriately, I managed to bump into yet another stack of books, nearly knocking them over. I hurried to steady the stack.

Never really trusted them. Besides, so many trees were destroyed to create all these old books – I can’t let them be wasted.

Does that same concern for trees perhaps extend toward human life? I turned from the books to him.

I apologize for the sudden manner in which you were taken. You have to understand, it had to happen this way. There was no other choice.

My eyes flashed. "I don’t think you quite understand. In the past days, I have been starved, sleep-deprived, interrogated, not to mention almost killed! I paused to take a breath, realizing that I was standing directly in front of the old man shaking my finger at him like I was scolding a three year old. Why am I here?" My last remark resonated from the walls. An eerie silence followed.

Cato just stood there staring at the floor, perhaps giving me time to compose myself. I took a deep breath. I am thankful to have been rescued from the mountainside, I said, speaking through gritted teeth, but then again, I have no reason not to believe your men created the avalanche in the first place. Anyway, I fail to see how this couldn’t have been handled better.

Cato smiled at me, You are too impatient, Kaitlyn. You always have been. He watched my reaction. I said nothing, stepped back, and inevitably hit another stack of books. I let this one fall. A piece of loose paper from the top landed on my foot. It was a handwritten letter with a very familiar signature at the bottom.

G, I said.

What? He leaned over looking at the paper I held.

After my parents died, I had occasionally received letters from a man signing them 'G'. One on my birthday and one on Christmas, at the very least. I’d always ignored them. I looked up at him. You are my Godfather?

About a year ago, the letters began arriving more frequently; once or twice a month. His tone also became more and more pressing as he urged me to make arrangements to visit him or at least write back. I had no intention of writing, calling, or visiting a man who decided to start a relationship once my parents, the only link between us, was gone. Besides, I had suspicions that his urgent matter might have something to do with the large sum of money they left behind. It has been sitting in a bank account, untouched, for 13 years now. Since their loss, I couldn’t bring myself to use it. Bank statements went unopened and I hadn’t yet set up the online access. It just felt wrong that I should benefit from their deaths, and hell if I was going to let anyone else. I had a sudden, sinking feeling, Is this about the money?

No, he said, this isn’t about the money. But yes, I am your Godfather - as I stated in all the letters I sent to you over the years. And that isn’t a G, it is a C, for Cato.

I suppressed the urge to apologize for the failure to respond to his letters, but stammered out an excuse nonetheless, I – I – didn’t know…

No need to apologize.

I wasn’t —

These are all letters from your parents to me. He interrupted before I could defend myself. They spent a lot of time writing about you.

He handed me a stack of letters held together by a thick rubber band, then leaned over and put his hand over mine. I am deeply sorry for your loss, they were great people.

I unfolded the first letter, instantly recognizing my mother’s handwriting. Neat and flowery, she took a lot of pride in her script and always nagged that I should do the same. She was writing about a camping trip; I remembered it well. During this particular trip I had become adept at lighting and maintaining campfires. My father gave me a short lesson, then put me, and me alone, in charge of the fire. We'd no heat or cooking flame for two days, and I could swear my mom was on the verge of strangling him. Once I did figure it out, the pride on his face combined with my mom’s relieved hug was well worth the wait. Her description of the event was so detailed and well written, I could almost feel the heat on my face from the flames that flickered across her words.

How come… My voice cracked and I cleared my throat as I sat down in a chair. How come you didn’t just come to see me? There was no need for all of this. I folded the letter as carefully as if they were her last words to me.

He sat down, too. I apologize for that. It isn't necessarily easy for me to leave this place. When it became essential to bring you here, we didn’t have the time for explanations. But I want you to know that you were never alone after your parents passed. I’ve always had someone looking after you. Which hasn’t been easy, considering how much you move around.

Thank you, I guess… I trailed off, then sighed. You still haven’t answered anything.

All right then, let’s dive right into the big question then, shall we? Why are you here? He paused, making it seem half as though he expected me to answer my own question. I hesitantly opened my mouth before he started again with a reassuring smile. To put it bluntly, I lead a movement whose ultimate goal is to save the earth.

I raised an eyebrow, Save the earth? You mean like, recycling? Or are we talking flying superheroes?

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, A little of both, perhaps. We work to protect, conserve, and provide balance to the planet and its ecosystems.

It all sounds very hippie. I stopped his explanation. Is it some kind of cult?

It is a way of life, he said. An awareness of the world in which you are living. We cannot be everywhere at once, so we concentrate on Earth's most immediate threat. Our mission is to prevent global devastation, and when time allows we promote ways to respect the environment.

I’m sorry, but it’s hard to imagine any of these goons you have collecting trash on the side of a highway.

You’d be surprised at what they can do. Take this compound, for example. We call it the Chakra. My men all helped to build it as a completely self-sustaining compound, except for the occasional food import. We produce all our own electricity through a solar panel farm on the property and a wind turbine out back. The water comes from a natural spring. This place never needs heating or air conditioning because the building is oriented with the long axis running east and west rather than north and south to promote solar heating gains in the winter and reduce solar gains in the summer. The basement vents are opened when it gets hot, allowing air currents cooled by the stone floor to flow through the rest of the house. It’s a very efficient cooling system.

So… you’re some sort of tree-hugging cult? I asked.

He laughed at my question, but I gave him a look that meant business. I wasn’t asking for a save-the-Earth lecture.

It is more than just hugging trees, he said. "It has to do with the universe. It is understanding it, communicating with it, taking from it, and giving back. Which is where you come in."

I still don’t follow, I said, the tone of my voice cold.

Let me show you something. Cato stood up and led me further into the room, weaving around stacks of books. I looked down, only half concentrating on keeping my footing in the mess, and half debating if I should turn tail and run. It was the whole ‘giving back to the universe’ that had me on edge. Distracted, I hadn’t realized he had stopped and I ran square into his back. He stepped to the side and my apology died in my throat. A giant tree loomed in front of me.

I stammered, Is this where I start the hugging?

He laughed, Of sorts.

Although it wasn’t giant, as far as trees go, it dominated the room, and how I didn’t notice it already was anyone’s guess. The thick, dark brown trunk supported a massive amount of branches, the lowest of which were too high for my reach. Each branch had a myriad of vibrant, green leaves. The color of Micah’s eyes, I noticed. The leaves shimmered with even more enthusiasm the further up I looked. Raising my gaze all the way to the ceiling, I saw an open skylight letting in the hot afternoon sun and a gentle breeze. The duo worked together to give the leaves the magical effect I perceived from way down below. The fresh scent enticed me to breathe in deeply; I was grateful for the break from the overpowering smell of musty, old books.

Cato turned toward the tree and knelt on the floor, lifting the carpet up where the trunk protruded from the ground. Dipping his hands underneath it, they re-emerged with a fistful of dirt.

There is only a carpet separating this room from the earth below us; I like to be as close to nature as possible without subjecting my research to the elements. He paused. Though it does pose quite a problem for keeping rodents out.

If you want to embrace nature it's got to be all or nothing. I mimicked the nasally voice of my fruit-cake middle school English teacher; an environmental nut.

He smiled wryly and gestured for my hand. I let him have it. Dirt slid from his palm into my own. As I cupped my hand to prevent any from seeping out, I felt small electrical charges, almost like little shocks. It wasn’t painful; just pure energy.

It’s like pop rocks! The phrase was out of my mouth before I could think.

He nodded in agreement, Remarkable, I know. He transferred his own bit of dirt from one hand to another. And that’s only the beginning – let me show you something else. He picked up a small twig from the ground and turned my hand over. Using the stick, he scratched me.

Ow! I pulled my hand away. Small trickles of blood made streaks down my hand.

Rub some of that dirt in the scratch.

I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. He offered no explanation. Slowly, I obliged. The sting of the cut ceased almost right away as did the bleeding. A small amount of foam bubbled out from the cut and each time I wiped it away, more appeared. The cut itself seemed to become smaller and less pronounced.

The ministrations applied to you over the past few days were nothing more than mud from the surrounding grounds.

Are you serious? I asked, eyes wide.

He nodded, Let me start with the basics. All matter vibrates at the molecular level. The vibrations emit energy waves creating a natural frequency, which varies depending on the object's size, shape, and composition.

This is the basics?

He ignored me. "Some people are more sensitive to these frequencies than others. You are one of them. Subconsciously, you have been absorbing energy from this land. This is one of few places on Earth with a particular frequency that synchronizes with your own energy waves. That is why we call it the Chakra. Chakras are energy centers on the human body. They are focal points for receiving or giving energy – just like this particular land. You can become dangerously strong, quick, and smart here. Which is why we’ve taken such strict security measures."

I very much wanted to believe. I’d felt it, particularly